After Red John
by LouiseKurylo
Summary: After fleeing to Venezuela, what does Jane think about, what does he do? What are Lisbon's reactions to his letters each month? How does The Mentalist turn this situation to his advantage? Here's my response to the notion that Jane was passive and unthinking in exile. This is also an exploration of how Jane would recover and eventually act upon his desire to get on with his life.
1. Chpt 1-Oct'13-Paradise & Contact

**After Red John  
**

**Who:** Jane, Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby, Van Pelt, Abbott, Minelli, etc.

**What:** Two years after Red John. Jane's letters, Lisbon's reactions.

**When:** After Red John (S6,E8), till Austin, TX.

**Where:** Venezuela and Washington.

**Why:** How does Jane experience exile in Venezuela? What does he do and think? And how does Lisbon settle into her new job in Washington and react to Jane's letters?

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of The Mentalist series, scripts, characters, etc.

* * *

**South America**

White. Brilliant white light. Traffic. Chickens cackling, people talking. Clatter of cart wheels. Heat radiating from the windows. Temperature just becoming oppressive.

Jane groaned and turned away from the window, but the light reflecting from whitewashed walls was still too bright. He woke and lay in bed trying not to think. He didn't feel like reading and, after a moment, rolled to his feet, resigned to starting another day.

Jane brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, combed his hair with his fingers, and dressed in shirt, shorts and shoes. He took his other set of clothes to give to the senora who did laundry for a few pesos. Monday. He picked up yesterday's discarded big city papers from his friend, then stopped at a small storefront restaurante for breakfast. Finding the section with puzzles, he fished out a pencil and solved half of the crossword puzzle before tossing it aside, bored. When he first arrived crossword puzzles were mildly engaging. Their appeal sharply fell off as his Spanish and knowledge of local customs and history improved. Only the major foreign publications offered puzzles difficult enough to hold his interest. Breakfast and tea absorbed an hour, then he was at loose ends again.

Jane hiked down to the sea. The beach was deserted this early in the day and he walked along the shore till tired enough to sleep again. He found a shaded, sandy nook between large rocks and lay down. Unbidden, he again dreamt of waking after the explosion at his house. Lisbon was standing by his hospital bed, achingly beautiful, concerned, sympathetic. His pleasure vanished as he fully woke to a flood of unanswerable questions about what Lisbon and the others were doing now. He suppressed a wave of loneliness, which was growing more intense with time. Frowning, he stripped off his clothes and plunged into the waves. Despite the heat, the water was cold, bracing. Swimming had the desired effect. The demanding physical effort precluded thought. After an hour, the sting of jellyfish tentacles drove him back to shore. A few raised welts burned with pain–a welcome distraction from the sharper pain of remembering.

By the time he hiked back to the village It was late enough for dinner. He unfolded a couple of Sudoku puzzles and worked them out while waiting for his dinner to be served. Afterward, a few miles of walking completed the day. He hoped he was tired enough to sleep. A typical day.

The next day was similar, as was the following and the one after...

~.~.~.~

**California**

McAllister, Bertram and Cordero were killed. Jane disappeared.

Journalists broke the story. Lurid headlines and specials blasted from every media outlet. The FBI attempted to manage this news tsunami and, to its credit, only partly failed. Exposure of the Blake Association meant a steady stream of arrests among California police, CBI agents, FBI agents, judges, and even some DA's/ADA's. The law enforcement and legal systems were strained to their limits and beyond with FBI agents reassigned from all over the US and retired judges pressed into service. Some local PD's were decimated, creating a mini-boom in hiring for law-enforcement. But only for people who had never worked law-enforcement in California.

Bertram's involvement tarnished the reputation of every former CBI agent, no matter that some–like Lisbon's team–had discovered and exposed the corrupt network. Lisbon tried to give Abbott the benefit of the doubt. To her credit, she only partly failed. She realized Abbott's safest course was to assume guilty until proven innocent, but still resented having two decades of honorable work summarily dismissed. It took him two months to conclude there was no BA connection to her team, including Jane. Abbott didn't bother pursuing the four former CBI agents on minor charges, deciding he had far more important targets. Jane was a different story, despite his role in uncovering the corruption. By all the evidence, Jane had killed McAllister with his bare hands. The FBI would recommend charges be filed, once the media storm died down a bit.

During that time, Lisbon ducked publicity as much as possible. She was grateful that Minelli was cleared of any BA links and asked for his help in finding a new job. Her friend managed to finagle her an interview in Cannon River, Washington. Once the city fathers decided she wasn't corrupt, her education, record, and interview made her a shoo-in for the position. She gladly accepted the generous offer.

Rigsby and Van Pelt started a detective agency, specializing in surveillance. Lisbon was sure they could make a go of it. Rigsby was solid, credible, and trustworthy and communicated such through every pore. Van Pelt's attractiveness would help get their foot in the door, at which point she could wow potential clients with her intelligence, computer savvy, and detective skills.

Cho was personally offended by the corruption, especially among former CBI colleagues. He was only too happy to accept Abbott's offer to help get him into the FBI training program as an agent, eventually to be assigned to work with Abbott. More than the others, he took no personal offense at Abbott's hard-nosed attitude. Cho would have done the same were their roles reversed. He eagerly looked forward to helping finish cleaning up the BA mess, given the chance.

Lisbon was grateful to be getting out of California, to start fresh. She could afford a house in the much less expensive Washington housing market and was looking forward to the calm and sanity of a straightforward position as police chief in a small town. Anything more would be a bonus. She was busy enough she didn't think of Jane more than several times a day. Minelli's back-channel info told her Cordero's gun killed Bertram. The gun found in McAllister's hand killed Cordero and wounded McAllister. Since McAllister surely didn't shoot himself, it must have been Jane, meaning McAlister was Red John. McAllister died by strangulation. Lisbon had no idea where Jane fled, but was grateful his body hadn't been among the dead. After killing Red John he had chosen life. She took it upon herself to salvage his books from the CBI and his suits from the extended stay motel. She figured out the storage locker key was for things he wanted to keep but would lose since the FBI had frozen his assets, and decided to pay the rental herself. It was two months post-Red John. She and all her worldly goods were on the way to Washington.

~.~.~.~

**South America, two months after Red John**

October, 2013

Dear Lisbon,

I trust this finds you well and happy. Since you're reading this, my friends found a way to pass along my letter. There will be more. I hope the message left on your phone kept you from worrying.

The flight was long and exhausting. It delivered me to the most remote place I could find on short notice. First impressions? Brilliant sunshine. Heat. Sand. Alien culture. It is so different from my previous life it still feels surreal.

I'm sorry I didn't write sooner. It is taking time to assimilate all that happened. At first, I must have slept 16 hours a day–ironic given how elusive sleep was in the past. I would walk or swim until tired enough to sleep again. Even now, every morning upon waking it takes a moment to realize: I no longer have to think about how to hunt down and kill some guy I can't even identify. That realization comes faster each morning. Some day I won't think about the past unless I want to. That will be a welcome day.

In my better moments, I succeed in living in the present-in simply "being." Despite my best efforts, the rest of the time I wonder how you and the others are faring. Please understand. I _wish_ you all well, I just don't want to think about it. Freeing me must have caused trouble for you all. I'm grateful you willingly brought that upon yourselves to help me. But there is nothing I can do about any of it. As inflexible as your antagonist is, by now he has to have realized your team wasn't corrupt. Perhaps he has enough other challenges to forgo pursuing charges against you. That is my hope. Beyond that, I'll let it go. There is nothing I can do from here. (The new, improved version of me surely will be less obsessive.)

Enough about all that. The past is gradually fading into the background. I am starting to enjoy my surroundings. The water and sky are beautiful. Swimming in the sea is a joy–except for the jellyfish. The strong waves are challenging but not dangerous. I'm fascinated by the play of light on the twisted, eroded rock formations at the beach. Monet did many paintings of the exact same field of haystacks to capture the effects of changing light. It's like that.

I'll post this now so it goes out today.

Miss you.

Me

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, October 2013**

Lisbon had settled in as police chief of Cannon River, Washington. There really wasn't much crime and she intended to keep it that way. The regular hours and free weekends provided ample opportunity to set up and decorate her house. Maybe she could even manage to have a personal life, that is, if she could find anyone suitable.

She left work at 5:00 p.m., getting into her city-owned SUV to drive home. She was just about to pull onto the highway when a beat-up pick-up sped past her and made a sudden left hand turn without bothering to signal. Wide-eyed in amazement at the blatant traffic violations in front of the PD building, Lisbon turned on the siren and light and zipped after the truck. She pulled it over a few minutes later on a side street. Hand on the butt of her gun, she approached the driver's door from the rear.

"Keep your hands on the steering wheel, where I can see them. Now!"

The big, gray-haired man complied. There was something familiar about him, but Lisbon wasn't going to be distracted.

"You were speeding and made an illegal left turn. Please get out of the vehicle and stand with your hands against the roof, legs back."

"Yes ma'm." The big man followed her instructions meekly, maybe even with a hint of a smile.

Lisbon looked at his face again. "Pete? Pete Turner, is that you?"

Pete looked around, not moving his hands, "Miss Lisbon. Yep. It's me."

Dumbfounded, after a moment, "Well, put your hands down and turn around. What's going on, why are you here?" she asked. Then, "You did that deliberately," and added, "There are no coincidences," before remembering who she was quoting.

"Mi–Chief Lisbon, I have something I'd like to give you. Can I get it from the glove box?"

She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah, please, Pete." He handed her a slightly wrinkled feather-weight airmail envelope, the kind where you write on one side then fold it up and seal to create the envelope. Her eyes watered as she recognized the handwriting. "Is this from–"

"–Yeah," he interrupted. "But he wants to keep under the radar, which is why I'm here."

"Oh, Pete. It's hundreds of miles. Thank you. Come join me for dinner."

"Thank you, Chief Lis–"

"_Teresa_, please. We're friends and you're doing me a huge favor."

"Thank you, Teresa. But I...arranged this traffic stop to avoid attracting attention. I appreciate the offer but I need to head back."

Impulsive for once, she gave him a quick hug. "You'll tell Sam, 'Hi' for me?" He nodded. "And do you think you'll be back, or will there be more–"

"Yeah, I think around once a month if I read correctly."

"Pete, how can I thank you? It's a long drive and–"

"It's for Paddy, Teresa. We're all family here."

She looked away, eyes suddenly betraying too much emotion.

"Well, if it's okay, I'll get going now." She almost gave him another hug, thought better of it and merely shook his hand. She swallowed the lump in her throat, watching him slowly drive away.

~.~.~.~

Lisbon slid into the SUV driver's seat and turned off the flashing light. She tucked the precious envelope into her purse. Hands trembling and eyes still suspiciously damp, she carefully drove home and locked the door behind her.

She examined the envelope in her hands. Venezuela postmark. _I'll have to look up about extradition treaties_. She walked over to the sofa in her home den, sank down, and carefully slit the edges to unseal the letter. A quick skim revealed nothing awful, no injuries or horrible problems. She got a glass of wine and returned to read it leisurely, for tone and nuance.

_So Jane escaped by plane. He must have planned in advance. No wonder he didn't want me involved. An escape for two would be impossible to pull off if he hadn't planned on it. It sounds like he went immediately. Of course, once he's in the air, he's safe so long as it's non-stop and there's no extradition treaty._

_ Venezuela. You can put what I know in a thimble. Have to look it up. Sounds like he's on the coast. But then he always liked the beach and swimming. Sixteen hours a day! Making up for ten years of strain and sleepless nights? Or, depressed and escaping what he doesn't want to think about? I never thought about him waking up every morning, thinking about how to get Red John. Thank God he doesn't have to do that anymore._

_ Oh, I wish I could tell him Abbott finally gave up and let us all go. We're good, Jane. And you got Red John. And we did, too. It was my unit's case. I really, really hope you don't have to be so obsessive any more._

_ Typical Jane. Mix in Monet and the beach. Damn. I miss you, too._

Lisbon sniffed the envelope, but it just smelled like paper. _Too far away. And who knows how long it took Pete to find out where I went and drive up here?_ After thinking a moment, she rose and took a stationery box down from a shelf, removed the last few blank sheets and unused envelopes, and put Jane's letter inside. She moved to return it to the top shelf, then decided a lower shelf would make more sense. _I'm gonna be re-reading this. It might as well be convenient._


	2. Chpt 2-Nov'13-First Thanksgiving

**South America, three months after Red John**

November, 2013

Dear Lisbon,

I hope you have much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. I do. You're at the top of my list.

Since I last wrote, I rented an apartment. It's not much–one large room and a bathroom. Aside from the hotel, this apartment is among the more modern accommodations in the village. There are cities, but I've deliberately chosen an isolated village. It's interesting how little I need: Bed, desk and chair, books, water, and a hotplate for tea. It's decent by local standards. The insect wildlife would be unacceptable in the US but, hey, this isn't the US.

I'm told current temperatures–hot-are typical. Bad news. No air conditioning except in the hotel and the one good (expensive) restaurant. As you may imagine, a three-piece suit is impractical. My usual garb now is a shirt, shorts or sarong (yes, sarong!), and the shoes I've worn forever. I tried going barefoot, but a piece of broken glass corrected that bad idea. Sand gets in sandals, so shoes it is. I brought nothing except what I was wearing so I'll have to have the local tailor make me some clothes soon. His work is excellent, but I hear he is a real character. We'll see.

A flaw in my paradise is the lack of written material in English. It takes a long time for book orders to arrive and there are no local English publications. Mondays offer the most entertainment. Tourists discard big city newspapers, which I scrounge for the puzzles (Franklin, a friend who works at the hotel, collects them for me). The crossword puzzles have been mildly challenging because of my weak Spanish and non-existent knowledge of local history and customs. Alas, as I improve their difficulty wanes. The puzzles from an occasional NY Times or WSJ are real treats. They are difficult enough to hold my interest till I finish. Fortunately, I bought a book of Sudoku puzzles on the trip here. I limit myself to a few each day to make them last.

Only hotel guests have television and Internet access. I avoid cell phones because they can be tracked. I haven't been keeping up with international news as my past still provides plenty to work through.

As you may recall, several years ago after a similar event you asked if I felt better. I don't feel better. I feel empty. The hardest thing to accept is the finality. There is nothing more I can do for my family. The "empty" is healthy, part of letting go. Beneficial, but still hard.

Thoughts of you and the team are among my recent happy memories. The drawback is that I miss you all. Far better to have something to miss than not. It's surprising it worked out so well–becoming part of the team, I mean. I came for a specific, personal purpose. I gained far more than I ever expected. How strange life is. I hope everyone feels I contributed as much as I received.

More next letter. Still missing you.

U No Hoooo

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, November 2013**

Lisbon drove home after work and pulled into her driveway. She normally used the side door and almost missed the red plastic bag hanging from the front door knob. She detoured around the house to the front. _Stupid advertising junk. A lot of it ends up blowing around as litter._ She almost tossed it in the trash, then realized she had no idea of what it was. _Usually they put their name or something on the bag._ Looking inside, she gave a sigh of relief at narrowly avoiding a big mistake. A_nother Jane letter. I was wondering how long it would take. If Pete keeps hand delivering these things I've gotta find a way to at least pay for the gas._ She propped the letter carefully on the back-splash ledge so it wouldn't get wet while she cooked dinner. She wanted to prolong the pleasant anticipation until she had dinner made and a glass of wine to accompany it.

She mentally commented as she read.

_Jane, I have lots to be thankful for. We all made it to the other side of Red John alive. You weren't even hurt and are now free. I have a job, the team is all doing well. Scattered, but moving on with their lives. I'm hoping to have Thanksgiving with Wayne and Grace. I'll miss Cho. And you, too._ She swallowed the lump in her throat, then read on.

_ An apartment! Good for you. That's more permanent than anything you had here for the last ten years. _She sipped her wine._ I can't imagine you without a vest, much less in a sarong! A thousand miles away and you still surprise me._

_Why an isolated village? Jane, you'll go stir crazy with nothing to do. Or maybe you'll finally have to think through all that painful stuff you've been ignoring for so long. I hope you will feel better sometime. But even 'empty' is better than rage and frustration and guilt._

_ And where does this sudden humility come from? Yes, you contributed as much as you got, especially once you figured out how to work with the team instead of engaging in a pissing match. We had the best close rates in the state. Thanks to you, we closed every cased assigned. Even Red John. Especially Red John. If you came home you'd see how much everyone misses you._

She made sure her few tears didn't fall on the letter. She wasn't really sad, just wishing they could be somewhere together. Meanwhile, it was enough to know he was doing okay and that he cared enough to write. He hadn't just disappeared, like she had feared.


	3. Chpt 3-Dec'13-First Christmas

**South America, four months after Red John**

December, 2013

Dear Lisbon,

Merry Christmas! Hope you are well and happy. I am fine.

The village is going nuts over the biggest religious holiday of the year. Copious decorations, much excitement, special foods. Interesting. The many festivals and holidays give locals an excuse to celebrate what would be considered difficult lives in our country. It makes me wonder about happiness. Material wealth clearly isn't the key. On the other hand, access to education, first rate medical care, and opportunity is seriously limited here. I doubt it's wise to trade all the wider world has to offer for a kind of unthinking happiness. Haven't figured it out yet.

Speaking of strange customs, residents attend mass before Christmas. The custom in a nearby big city is to travel to mass on roller skates. Like I said, alien culture. Definitely not home.

I traveled to the city to replenish my spending money through ad hoc street and night spot performances. (I have plenty to live on but am holding myself to _earning_ any money I want to donate.) I anonymously gave the money to a family wiped out by a tropical storm. They'll have a chance to recover. Felt good. Of course, it's a drop in an ocean of need. I cannot change the material circumstances of the village. Even if I could, it's unrealistic to think change would be all good. There wold be unintended bad consequences as well as the benefits. My bias is for development and opportunity, but it isn't my call. Anyhow, I think my small act did some good.

Alfredo is the proprietor of a little beach restaurant (shack, really). I finally know him well enough to get him to make eggs and tea the way I like, without giving offense. (Unfortunately, the "ugly American" stereotype is alive and widespread.) It's minor, but really improves my mornings. Apparently my preference for tea over coffee is slightly rude according to local custom. I'm content to let Alfredo grumble under his breath about it. His dog Hugo is Alfredo's unofficial greeter. Great dog. I've always liked dogs but never owned one. I was either moving around too much or unable to convince my wife. She would have provided most of the care so I guess her reluctance was understandable.

My hiking and swimming are now more for enjoyment than as a means to sleep. I've even tried surfing, something I haven't done since I was a teenager. It wasn't too bad, meaning I didn't kill myself. But I think I'll stick with swimming. I'm sleeping fewer hours and those hours take me through the night. Not so many nightmares. Progress.

I mentioned Franklin in a previous letter. He is 19 and works as a bellboy for the hotel. He has more schemes and side deals in motion than any other three people combined. I call him enterprising. You (or especially Cho!) would just say "hustler." Yes, of course he reminds me of me. That's a young man who would seize greater opportunities and run with them were they available. He collects newspapers for me for the puzzles. He also passes along any news–not that there's much. Whatever there is to know in the village, he knows or will find out. Sharp and enjoyable. He'd make you smile.

The thought of you makes me smile. And miss you even more. Till next letter,

Me

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, December 2013**

The PD party on Christmas Eve was small and brief. The wives–very traditional, this town was–brought covered dishes and Christmas cookies for a pot luck dinner. Lisbon had baked pies, something she could do well with minimal effort. She also gave each PD employee a gift certificate, deliberately leaving the impression the city was funding the gifts. Lisbon was still very pleased with her pay which, comparable to her CBI pay, went a lot further in Cannon River than it had in Sacramento. Giving something of herself reminded her of her family and made her feel more like Christmas. As she expected, her brothers would not be able to come up to Cannon River for the holiday. Most of her staff were married and so she preferred to work Christmas Day herself rather than take people away from their families.

It was dark when Lisbon left the PD building and the sleet was freezing into ice. Having grown up with Chicago's bad winters, the weather was only a minor nuisance. It was minor until a passenger car slid through a stop sign at the bottom of a hill, right across her path. Swearing under her breath, Lisbon swerved to avoid a crash and promptly slid into the culvert. The other driver stopped and ran over, flustered and worried about causing an accident with the chief of police. He was a young teen she had seen at football games several times. No one was hurt. The police car wasn't damaged. Mildly annoyed, Lisbon gave the teen a brief lecture on defensive driving in bad weather and let the incident pass with a warning. When they couldn't get the SUV out of the ditch she called a tow truck and sent him on his way. Half an hour later, she finally finished the five mile drive home from work. She closed and locked the door behind her, tossing her keys on the counter and shedding coat, hat and gloves.

The timer switched on the Christmas tree lights, cheering her with the silent beauty. She left the rest of the house dark, using the refrigerator light to pour a glass of wine from a partly empty bottle. She was looking forward to seeing Grace and Wayne, who were driving up next weekend. It wasn't wonderful to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas alone (except for Christmas Eve mass, which she would attend later), but that's just the way it was. One thing she missed was Jane. She had always worried about him on this personal, family-centric holiday. Now she worried because she hadn't gotten a letter from him in December. Her glass of wine nearly finished, she got up to make a sandwich–_won't do to be tipsy at Mass–_and refill her glass. She noticed a dark rectangle against the floor, picked it up, and realized it was a letter from Jane. Smiling, she thought, _Pete must have slipped it in between the door and frame. Maybe I need new weather stripping. Glad I sent him and Sam a gift certificate to that Airstream catalog for all his trouble._ She took her food and wine into the den, lit the gas fireplace and sat down to read.

_Merry Christmas to you, too, Jane_. _The country's Catholic and you're surprised at all the fuss? And why does happiness have to be one or the other? It's not an equation where you trade happiness for access to the modern world._ Now that you're done with vengeance, come back here and I'll show you.

_And now my favorite con man is going out of his way to earn money for that family. Jane you are such a soft touch, no matter how much you deny it. You don't have to "save" the whole village. I bet that family appreciates your "drop in the ocean" just fine._

_ Leave it to you to get the whole world to make your eggs and tea the way you like. Not an "ugly American," just an annoying _OCD one. How well I remember the three days you couldn't see and dragooned us into making your tea. What a pain in the ass that was! My sympathies to Alfredo.

She smiled at the next paragraph, glad to hear he was beginning to enjoy himself. _So happy to hear the nightmares are letting up. Yes, Jane, that's wonderful progress. And you're right. Your friend Franklin sounds just like you. With both of you around, that village won't know what hit it. Merry Christmas, Jane._ She reread the three letters he had sent, and then had to get ready for the midnight mass, happier than she had been for weeks.


	4. Chp 4-Jan'14-The Shell

**South America, five months after Red John**

January, 2014

Jane's attempt to write was derailed by the flu and bronchitis. The bronchitis was almost as effective in preventing sleep as Red John had been. Still feverish and dead tired, three failed attempts convinced him he wasn't going to write a coherent letter, especially one anyone would want to read. But failing to write would confirm Lisbon's bad opinions of him. And, of course, she would worry. He finally decided to just mail her the perfect cowrie shell that had washed up after the last storm. Franklin found a box from the hotel gift shop. Jane managed to drag himself out of bed and wrapped the shell in tissue paper. He wrote "Teresa. Letter soon." on the top, wrapped it in brown paper, addressed and mailed it. If he tried to do more it wouldn't get sent at all. He hoped that would do till he could write to her again.

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, January 2014**

New Year's Eve was sure to produce drunk drivers who in turn would ensure heartache and irrevocable loss for some families through car accidents. Lisbon made sure every Cannon River retail store posted a neon bright yellow flyer warning of a heavy police presence and promising (actually, threatening) no leniency for any DUI's. Her efforts paid off. There were fewer accidents than in previous years and no fatalities. Given her personal history, she took inordinate satisfaction in that. The local paper did a story comparing this year's statistics with those of the past and the city council even took a moment to commend her publicly. At her request, the council amended their commendation to cover the whole PD.

As January flew by, the familiar unease began building again, and a certain queasiness took up residence in her stomach. _His last letter was late. Maybe it's okay. There's still another week-and-a-half of January._

Lisbon entered her office on the last Monday of the month, hanging up her coat on the rack inside her office. It was a moment before she noticed a plastic bag on her desk. She took out a small box from the bag and frowned. _What? _By the size and shape it looked to be a gift box. There was no wrapping or address, so it must have been dropped off. _Christmas is long gone, so who?_ She turned the box over in her hands. Looking more closely, she noticed faint writing on the lid in pencil. _Jane's handwriting!_ Pleased, she opened the box to find the shell. A pang of disappointment followed closely as she realized there was nothing more inside. The shell was pretty, but she would have traded it for a letter. Better yet would be a letter and the shell. She swallowed and shrugged. _Maybe there's a reason. Maybe he'll explain next letter._ She returned the shell to the box and put it in her purse. After a moment she retrieved it and placed the shell on her desk. It looked just right next to the baseball–the foul ball Jane had caught the hard way, so long ago. She sighed. _Another month and at least it's something. He didn't forget. He's okay enough to send stuff to me, so there's probably no cause for concern._

That night a letter came in the mail thanking her for the gift certificate to the Airstream catalog. It was unsigned, but she knew it was from Pete and Sam. Turning over the envelope, she smiled. The letter had been was posted here in Cannon River._ No one will trace it back to the carnival if Pete can help it. How did I ever get tangled up with people who cover and dodge the law as naturally as breathing?_ Of course, the answer was one infinitely fascinating, endlessly frustrating former-con-man-turned-friend.


	5. Chpt 5-Feb'14-Jellyfish

**South America, six months after Red John**

February, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I hope this year will be a good one for you and that you welcomed it in happy and healthy. Sorry I sent only the cowrie shell last month. Beautiful and perfect, it reminds me of you. I was sick with flu and bronchitis, which highlighted another major drawback to my second-world paradise: Lack of good medical care (more later). I'm fine now. (I would say I hope you didn't worry, but that seems presumptuous. You should be focused on your own life.)

I could never guess it's winter without a calendar. The tropical climate is always too hot and humid. Without air conditioning, swimming is the main relief.

On to something wonderful. After Christmas, Franklin invited me on a boat ride at night. Strange, right? Turns out it's mating season for jellyfish–translucent, luminous jellyfish that glow red, green, yellow or blue. The wind pushes them toward shore and the water teems with them.

Males and females twirl, advance and retreat. Some blink, some slowly brighten, and some flicker with long and short flashes. It's beautiful-fireworks in the inky water. When a male and female choose each other, they dance through the night. They circle and dive in elaborate 3‑D patterns. It culminates when she opens her tentacles and releases a cloud of eggs. He catches them with cupped tentacles. After contributing his sperm he leaves them in a quiet place to grow. Who would expect such beauty from the bane of swimmers everywhere?

You may have guessed: I miss speaking English. It's not a matter of nostalgia or familiarity. It's my inability to think and speak precisely. Spanish is beautiful to hear– akin to the difference between Hawaiian and German. But English has borrowed from so many languages it is incomparably richer, more complex. Lack of words for concepts really does limit thought. I'm sure you've heard about the many words Eskimos have for snow. (Less controversial, the Scandinavian Sami language has almost 200 snow- and ice-related words and a thousand words for reindeer!) Between the limitations of Spanish and _my_ mediocre command of it, I feel like an Eskimo with a single word for snow. I enjoy writing, imagining a conversation with you, both because it is you and because I have no one I could even mention my ideas to here. There is one other English-speaking person, Roger. Let's just say Roger is well past his conversational prime.

More about the limited medical care. My friend Franklin's younger brother has a serious, but treatable, medical problem. Unfortunately, the cost is prohibitive. It is a cruel dilemma all too common in third- and second-world countries. To my mind, this is among the strongest arguments favoring development. Rosy notions of simple, pure native life shatter when your child suffers simply because the treatment is unaffordable. I'm going to help, but it will take more money than I can earn from ad hoc performances. I need to find high stakes card games in which my memory palace or other skills would provide a critical advantage. This is trickier than it sounds. High stakes games have stated and unstated rules. Also, there are the twin risks of cops where gambling is illegal, and, disgruntled losers where law enforcement won't protect me. And, of course, I don't want to attract attention. The next time I write I'll either have won the money I need. Or I will be working on another plan. It will be interesting.

Miss you.

Who else but me?

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, February 2014**

A few days into February, 2014, a new Toyota RAV4 was parked in Lisbon's driveway when Lisbon got home from work. The driver was still in the car. Cautious, Lisbon got out, hand on her gun, and walked up to the driver's side window.

"Can I help you" Lisbon asked, calmly but with an authoritative edge to her voice.

"You sure can, Pepper," the black woman responded with a smile, getting out of the SUV.

Her tension evaporated. "Sam!" she exclaimed with a matching smile.

"I have a special delivery for you," she said, handing Lisbon an airmail letter. "Delivering this RAV from San Francisco to Seattle is my excuse for being here."

"Thank you! Can you come in, visit a while?"

"It's bad enough I could be seen out here with you. And I have to deliver this car in Seattle by tomorrow."

"He only sent that shell last time. I was a little worried."

"I know. He usually sends us a letter along with yours. Nothing terrible. Paddy's fine. Oh, and thank you for the Airstream gift card. Pete's gonna get an attachment we've been wanting."

"My pleasure." They hugged then Sam left.

As usual, Lisbon set the letter aside while she made dinner and poured a glass of wine. She was glad he wrote early in the month after the disappointing lack of a letter in January. Meal finished, she took wine and letter into the den, sank down onto the couch, and began reading.

She shook her head at his first paragraph. _Damn it, Jane. A __month__ laid up with the flu and bronchitis. Why do I suspect you just ignored being sick, didn't take it easy? I bet you didn't even see a doctor_. She sighed. _Damn straight I was worried. And stop using compliments to divert attention from your usual stubborn refusal to get care. Presumptuous? No, how can I not worry? Half the time I think you should be shadowed by an ambulance!_

_ Oh! How lovely. Jellyfish of all things. I'd love to see that, if I could ever get the time and an excuse. You must not be swimming much with so many in the water._

_ I'm sorry you're so cut off, Jane, but you chose that village. If missing English keeps you writing to me, you can just go on missing it._ She thought slowly._ Though maybe it __has__ to be an isolated village, or there'd be so many ways to distract yourself you'd never work through things._

_ And about this angel of mercy you're turning into?! I get the feeling your high stakes games are ten times more dangerous than you let on. No one plays illegal high stakes games without knowing who they're dealing with. I bet you're just going to waltz in and try to bluff your way into the game. Being Patrick Jane, there's a good chance you'll succeed. No wonder you liked working at CBI! You got to poke at VIP's and con suspects while under the protection of two very able bodyguards. __And__ the law on your side._ She sighed and smiled. _Good luck and stay safe. Wish I could write back._


	6. Chpt 6-Mar'14-Not Striving

_._

**South America, seven months after Red John**

March, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I hope all is well with you. I am fine although I miss you more than usual.

Franklin's brother will be treated. The card games generated enough to cover the costs. There were a few touchy moments, but I walked away no worse for the wear with the money I needed. I set up an untraceable fund at a city clinic. Franklin may suspect I had a hand in it (he _is_ sharp), but he cannot be sure.

The games were exciting. It was gratifying to use skills that are not needed for everyday life in the village. I'm glad I accomplished my goal.

So why do I feel confused and unsettled? For the first time I can recall, I'm not striving to achieve something-pleasing my father in the show, hustling to eat, supporting my family, hunting killers. _Not striving _feels unnatural. But it also feels good after 10 difficult years. I can't decide. Is this what healthy feels like? Or, is it merely a respite, time to heal before resuming something like my former life at CBI? I'd give a lot to talk with you about this. Moving to a place where no one knows you confers a kind of invisibility. Good for staying off the radar. Not good for meaningful connections. Context is important. There's no such thing as instant friendship. Being understood is an underrated pleasure.

Last night's storm pushed over trees and blew off some tin roofs. There may be a grain of truth in folklore about aching bones forecasting bad weather. My neck–the two vertebrae fractured in the car crash–ached fiercely before the storm. Now that it's past, all is back to normal. All in all, having a built-in storm forecaster isn't worth the pain.

The hot weather finally broke after the storm. It is cooler, but only by comparison. Franklin says the coming months will be worse. I miss California's desert climate. It's a cliche, but it really is the humidity, not the heat.

Crime in the village is minor, usually non-violent. It's tempting to credit the bucolic setting, but statistics provides a better explanation. A rare, extreme event-wait for it-_rarely will occur_ in such a small population. For example, an event with a one-in-ten thousand probability of happening is very unlikely to occur in a village with under a thousand souls. I occasionally think about the mess in California. My main objective was achieved, but there are years of work to clean it all up. I can think about it with a degree of detachment, now. Still, the thought of anything like my last 10 years engenders dread. Since I can't go back, it's moot. I wonder what you are doing, what all of you are doing.

I wish I really could read your mind. That would come in handy. I remain,

Your Friend

~.~.~.~

Lisbon, take care and be safe! My little reflection about crime was triggered when a local thug badly beat a shopkeeper after an argument. People are still people, even in idyllic villages like this.

I mostly don't think about your work as a cop while I'm loafing on this little island. I know I left behind Red John friends and Blake Association members, not to mention the usual violent criminals cops take on every day. If I let myself think about this, any semblance of calm and sanity would be gone in an instant. I'd take the next plane back, consequences be damned.

I'm trying to put my life–myself–back together after the murders, after ten years of obsession with revenge. If you were hurt or worse it would be the end of me. I even pray to a god I don't believe in to keep you safe. Be careful. Please!

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, March 2014**

Lisbon closed the door to her office, plopped down in the chair behind her desk and put her face in her hands. _Henry is sweet, but honest to God he is terminally naive! What was he thinking?!_

Henry, her assistant, had been his usual sweet self, trying to be helpful to an obviously distraught woman. Henry was scammed. The woman was the doxy of a local drug dealer. All she wanted was to go see her "relative" and, of course, helpful Henry gave her the location of a key witness. Fortunately, Lisbon had overheard the end of the call, figured it out, and had the witness relocated immediately. It was times like these that Lisbon missed Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt so fiercely she ached. _Of course a small town like this can't attract talent like that._ Her mind skittered away from that thought, lest she be forced to think about what _she_ was doing here. She again reminded herself of the serenity, and sense of community, and stability of Cannon River. She failed miserably to convince herself that the job wasn't boring her out of her mind._ The first case that holds the slightest bit of interest and Henry nearly screws it up. God!_

Uncharacteristically, she left work early. Lost in thought, a large, unkempt man leaning against the building went unnoticed until he quietly called, "Miss Lisbon."

Looking up, "Roddy Turner?"

"Pete and Sam say, 'Hi.' They wanted me to give you this newspaper." He said in his thick Irish accent, handing her a copy of the local paper.

Happiness washed over her, knowing she'd be enjoying a letter from Jane that evening. "Thank you. Join me for dinner?"

"No, sorry I can't. Pete will have my hide if I don't follow instructions."

"How's Kaitlin?"

He beamed, "She's growing up sassy and beautiful, like her mom was." Shyly, "Rose and I got married a year ago and we're expecting, too."

She put her hand on his arm. "I'm glad you're getting on with your life. Congratulations on your marriage, too. If you can't join me for dinner, please take this note to the Cannon River diner and have dinner on me." She scribbled out a note and signed it, asking the restaurant to put the meal on her tab.

"Thanks. I've gotta be going now if that's okay."

~.~.~.~

Dinner over, Lisbon fished the envelope out from the newspaper pages and retired to the den with letter and wineglass in hand. She carefully slit the sides to open it. She didn't notice as an extra folded paper fell out onto the floor.

_I'm glad you got through your card games unhurt. And I'm sure it makes you happy to help your friend Franklin by helping his brother. Once you let someone in, I've never known anyone to be a better, more generous friend, Patrick Jane. _She swallowed the lump in her throat.

_ Do you really think you can do nothing for long? I wish I could talk to you, too. Jane, you are terrible at doing nothing, at "not striving" as you put it. You can't even sit still without reading a book or doing a puzzle. Or getting into trouble. Just like a cat: If not sleeping, vibrantly alert. By all means, heal, my friend. But don't think you can change your whole personality. –I wouldn't recognize you!_

She sighed. _If only you knew. I'm safer in Cannon River than I've been in years. A minor drug bust is a big deal here. I'm more likely to hurt myself tripping over the dogs sleeping on the sidewalks, than busting a perp. Frankly, I wish I were able to help clean up the Blake Association and the rest of Red John's friends. I'm just glad you're out of all this mess. God! I __so__ worried Red John would hurt or kill you if he ever tired of playing cat and mouse._

She got up to put his letter into the box, safe with the others, then noticed the folded paper on the floor. Picking it up, she read the note that fell out of Jane's letter. She sat back down, a little shocked at his raw fear and anguish. And those little watermark circles weren't rain either.

_Why am I surprised you continue to worry? It's sad you're still not at peace after spending a quarter of your life hunting a horrible serial killer. Don't think about this. The whole team is safer now. Wayne and Grace have their own agency. They won't face anything as dangerous as our CBI cases, even ignoring Red John. Cho's training for the FBI at Quantico and is safe for now. And I'm so safe here my biggest risk is dying of boredom. God, how I wish I could write back. You took out a serial killer and exposed a vast corrupt network in law-enforcement. You __don't__ deserve prison for that, I don't care what the law says. Stay and get well, Jane. That's all any of us want for you._

She added the slip of paper to the letter. His fear would probably trigger a round of nightmares on her part. Jane almost drowning. Getting caught in an explosion. Captive of Dumar Hardy. And threatened by any number of suspects over the years. _Jesus, Jane. Except that I miss you so damned much I should __pay__ to keep you safe on that beach or island or whatever it is._ She brushed the tears from her face as she tidied before turning in for the night.


	7. Chpt 7-Apr'14-Village Kids

**South America, eight months after Red John**

April, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I trust this finds you well. All is well here, too.

Have I mentioned the kids? A pack of boys, all eight-to-ten years old, has the run of the village. Noisy, boisterous, curious. As entertaining and appealing as puppies. They buttonhole me most mornings for riddles and magic tricks. I exploit that. They have to "pay" for every trick by showing me something they've learned–basic reading and math, mostly. I also tease them into discovering simple scientific principles. You'd be surprised how often opportunities present themselves. Afternoon is the hottest part of the day. If they're around, I tell them half-an-hour or so of the Harry Potter story–as much as I can remember from reading the books with my daughter. I first got the village priest on my side. I take care to stay clear of superstitions and religious dogma. It's fortunate I have a good memory as I haven't been able to get copies of the books.

Three whales approached the shore a few days ago. I was swimming and they came within a hundred feet of me. I knew their size intellectually. But being in the water with them was intense and, yes, scary. I sensed no malice. The sheer difference in size was simply overwhelming. Remarkable.

I miss having interesting, complex things to figure out. Occasionally, my thoughts drift to the unsolved puzzles I left behind. There was more to the situation than we uncovered. It's interesting to spin theories so long as I stay away from the central puzzle. _That_ triggers revulsion I have yet to get over. Nonetheless, I'm improving. I once couldn't bear to think about any of this. Now they're just memories: Some puzzling, some unpleasant, some still troubling. Time has leached most of the emotion from them. That said, I never want to go back to the place I was for the last 10 years.

Solving mysteries was fun, especially when the full talents and resources of the team were deployed. You and the team were the good part, the stuff of fond memories. The rest made for the hardest 10 years of my life. Sorry. You put up with me through those years so I doubt you need a recap. Oh! I've been meaning to say this for several letters. I'm sorry the CBI was disbanded and disrupted your careers. Whatever it is, I hope your current work is worthy of your talents.

I'd love to show you the prettier places here. I've hiked everywhere within a ten-mile radius. You'd enjoy nature if you gave it a chance, city girl. (And stop thinking deer are dangerous!)

Time to post this if I'm to catch today's out-going mail. It's unbelievable. Each letter is the same weight and destination, but the postage is never the same twice in a row. It is a different world here.

Miss you. I want to remedy that some day.

You know who

**Washington State, April 2014**

Lisbon woke and stretched, muzzy with sleep. She knew there was something special about the day, but couldn't recall just what. _Oh! It's been six months!_ Lisbon had moved to Cannon River exactly six months ago. Since then she had moved in, decorated her house (_Her__ house!),_ settled into the job, and even begun to feel like part of the community. She dressed, had a light breakfast, and drove the five miles to work, still preoccupied with the surprising fact of her six month anniversary in this place.

Work was calm and slow, as usual. No one else noticed anything special about the day. _What was it Jane said? Moving to a place where no one knows you provides a kind of invisibility. That was it. True and little sad_.

At last the day was over. Driving home, Lisbon resolved to be happy for herself. She would go out to dinner and indulge in a messy, sinfully caloric dessert. Her heart gave a pang as she remembered the ice cream sundaes she had shared with Jane. She glanced at the team photo on the fireplace mantle then pushed the thought away. She changed out of her uniform, donning a soft teal green sweater, dress pants, and dress boots. Just for the hell of it, she dabbed perfume at her throat and put on a brighter shade of lipstick. She left her gun and harness in the home safe and put a smaller pistol in her purse.

Pulling out of her driveway she caught sight of a pick-up truck behind her. It almost seemed familiar, but she forgot about it as she pulling into the restaurant parking lot. The pick-up pulled in too and parked nearby. She got out. As she walked past the rear of her car, a bulky figure stooped down nearly at her side.

"Miss," he said, "I think you dropped this."

Lisbon looked at his face with a start. _Pete!_ Then she automatically extended her hand to accept the envelope he offered. "Uh, thank you. I did drop it."

"You're very welcome."

"Umm–"

"I have to be on my way, now."

Lisbon watched a moment as Pete drove away, then glanced down at the letter. The Jane letter. Suddenly it felt like she would have company for dinner after all.

After ordering, she carefully cut the side folds that made the sheet into a self-mailer. She was comfortable that the booth's high sides would allow her to read Jane's letter in relative privacy.

Local residents noticed her, but limited themselves to a polite wave. Lisbon was always courteous, but didn't encourage people approaching for conversation, at least not during dinner.

She skimmed the letter, then got a refill of wine and settled back to read at leisure.

_That's so like you to extract something in return for your tricks. Of course, you've found a way to benefit those kids, too. Annabeth talked me into reading the Harry Potter books. Great choice if you can remember enough of it. What am I thinking?! Of course you'd remember._

She took a sip of wine and shook her head a bit. _Swimming with whales! Jane, when they made you, I think they left out the common sense gene that keeps most of us safe. _She read further. _And deer can so be dangerous. I saw a documentary about how they protect themselves with their feet. Or hooves. Or something. I bet they can bite, too. 'City girl,' my ass. Crazy consultant. Jane, I might give deer another try but whales are out of the question._

She smiled at the rest of the letter. _Gee, what a surprise. You like mysteries and miss having interesting things to think about. Who knew?! Oh, Jane, I most certainly hope you do 'remedy' missing me. If you could get out from under the charges, you could come back and figure out mysteries to your heart's content. You reached your goal. Red John is dead and his supporters are dead, arrested, or on the run. Coming back doesn't have to mean anything like the last ten years._

She sighed, then carefully folded and put the letter into her purse. She ordered the biggest, most sinful sundae on the menu, knowing she couldn't possibly finish it. _For you, Jane. Until we do meet again._


	8. Chp 8-May'14-Like A Diary

**South America, nine months after Red John**

May, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits and health. In fact, I hope this letter finds you, period.

May marks the start of the summer diversions. I don't know exactly how you get my letters, but I suspect my friends will have a harder time getting them to you for a while. A gap or delay is no reason for concern. While I'm at it, maybe I should mention why I write only once a month. I certainly _think_ of you often, every day. It's just that I don't know how much I'm asking of my friends. I don't want to abuse their kindness.

I hope my letters don't veer into the strange or awkward–at least not often. Because it's a monologue, writing to you has something of the flavor of a diary. I have an abundance of uninterrupted time to think. For better or worse, you're getting my interior dialogue, my efforts to work through everything. I am certain I need to do this to finally put it behind me. I am less certain this makes for good letters. The saving grace? You control how intrusive they are. You have my blessings to skip the tedious or self-absorbed in what I write.

It's the wet season (or should I say, half-year?). Every day brings rain. Where trees and undergrowth have been cleared, the water funnels into streams and rivers, rushing down from high ground and eroding the surrounding banks. Some livestock was even washed out to sea this week. I was always amused when Americans moaned about environmental degradation. Clean environments are a "luxury good" in economic jargon. The worst devastation occurs in the poorest areas, places where there is no room for any concern beyond survival. This village is not that bad. Residents are poor, but survival is usually not in question.

I shouldn't be smug. A huge strength of the American system is the rowdy, noisy jostling of innumerable different perspectives. I'm glad someone is watching out for the environment, just as I'm glad someone else worries about the economic costs. So long as it's all aboveboard, the result is usually a pretty good compromise.

I just realized something remarkable since my last letter. It's the "dog that didn't bark." In the month since I last wrote, I have not once thought about the murders or killer, even though I often think of my family. There's a branch of psychotherapy that relies on reviewing a traumatic event until there simply is nothing more to uncover, no more emotion to be wrung from it. I may be getting to that point. After ten, almost eleven, years, there are no new thoughts or emotions about the murders. And now the killer is dead as well. Nothing is left undone, nothing more to decipher. Being freed from ten years of tension and striving feels good.

The spring rains generate a riot of colorful flowers. I'm tempted to pick some for my room, then reconsider. I see them whenever I hike or walk around the village. I'd rather keep it simple, not clutter my small space. Wherever you are, I hope beauty surround you.

Miss you.

Me

**Washington State, May 2014**

Lisbon set her rifle down, waiting for the reigning local champion marksman to finish his ten shots. The district shooting competition was held each year as the carnival traveled through. With ample free time and boredom rearing its ugly head, she decided to attend and compete. A respectable showing would burnish her credentials among the more Neanderthal Cannon River men–the ones who couldn't believe a diminutive woman could be an effective police chief. She reacted with a wide smile when her score was better than her competitors–she was now the local top shot in this event. A good day.

A woman approached her shortly after to congratulate her. The woman had a three-year-old and an infant in tow. Lisbon thought nothing of it, although the toddler did look familiar. The woman lingered as others congratulated her. Then interest died down as the competition turned to other marksmen events.

Lisbon glanced up, surprised the woman was still there. "Is there something I can help you with?"

A bit shy, the woman said, "Yes, I have something for you. Pete and Sam sent me since they're...traveling right now."

Lisbon's breath caught in her throat, then she was able to reply as she accepted the envelope, "Thank you so much. You must be–"

"I'm Rose, Roddy's wife."

"Of course. He said you had married. I just haven't had the pleasure of meeting you."

They exchanged a few more words, then Rose left, blending into the crowds. She had said she would be getting the letters to Lisbon until Pete, Sam and Roddy were done with the carnival circuit for the year.

Lisbon forced herself to stop fidgeting, to wait calmly for the awards ceremony for the shooting competition. As soon as she got her ribbon and certificate and accepted the congratulations of a few well-wishers, she left, eager to read Jane's letter in private.

Back home at last, wineglass and envelope in hand, she lit the gas fireplace and settled onto the couch, her Jane letter-reading ritual.

She started reading and smiled, knowing the mail delivery problem had already been solved. The thought of Pete, Sam, Roddy and now Rose faithfully delivering Jane's letters made her feel warm all over. _These carny folk are something. Once they accept you, you're family. Jane's family. And, yes, I guessed you didn't want to abuse their favor. I'm pleased to hear you think about me so often. Me too, Jane, me too._

_ You? Strange? Awkward? Maybe a little, occasionally. But that's a small price for your being visible, showing more of yourself to me. I am __so__ grateful you're doing okay. First, that you chose life after...dealing...with McAllister. And now, you really do sound better. Easier. Lighter. Happy, even._

_ Speaking of strange, is there anything that's simple for you? In your head everything is interconnected. It can't simply be the rainy season. No, you hook that into the environment and then throw in economics and worldwide development for good measure. And now back to US politics. No wonder you were always wandering off. Just the physical expression of your interior life._ She smiled in fond memory, although in the back of her mind she recalled that it wasn't always charming at the time.

_ Yes! You __are__ beginning to put it behind you. It isnt always on your mind anymore. So now what? Have you begun to figure out what you want to do now? I'll have to wait for more letters._

_ Funny. So you don't want to clutter your "space." What, are you channeling Thoreau and his Walden Pond? Oh, yeah. I forgot. You're not a psychic. Miss you, too, Jane._

She swallowed the last of her wine. Eyes a bit moist, _miss you more than ever._


	9. Chpt 9-Jun14-An Impossible Chasm

**South America, ten months after Red John**

June, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

Hope this finds you gloriously happy and brimming with vitality! And why not? Why limit my wishes for you to ordinary happiness and good health? All is well here.

I haven't lost it. Blame my effusiveness on _cool_ temperatures. A weather anomaly has dropped temperatures 10 degrees below the norm. I'm overjoyed.

Thinking of people I left behind, It's over eleven months since the wedding. I wonder if they are expecting by now or are even new parents. My impression is they both like kids. Fun to speculate.

You once asked, "Do you feel better?" My answer has evolved. I do feel better. The months here have brought me peace. I don't mean to be dramatic, but I'm no longer consumed by the need to accomplish a difficult-if not impossible-task. I knew I would never give up. But all the years of near misses obliterated any notion that success was easy or inevitable. It was wearing. Goal accomplished, I've been able to move on.

That said, I still don't have a good answer to your other question, "Now what?" So far, the honest answer is, "Nothing much." This will always be a foreign culture. The differences are too great for me to settle in and become a true part of the community. That leaves me restless. Even a whole country can feel like a prison and I don't do well feeling confined. (That may be a throwback to my time in foster care, of being _forced_ to stay somewhere. Or maybe just being tied to my father at the carnival till I could break loose and make it on my own.)

The people are warm, generous, gregarious. But we have little in common. I could love a village woman for herself, but the educational and cultural differences are an impossible chasm. Dalliances are out, too. A village doesn't have the anonymity of a big city. I won't mess up some woman's life here by breaking the social and religious taboos. Worse, if I fathered a child I would have to stay, marry, and support and raise my child. Similar factors bar close friendships, too. So far, a solution eludes me.

I know. I'm here by choice so I'll stop whining (to you of all people!). I appreciate your friendship and shouldn't abuse the privilege.

Except for the tiny village, there is unbroken sea and sky with a thin thread of open land. Huge flocks of seabirds wheel and swoop, as exacting as ballet choreography. The vast blue expanse puts my concerns into perspective. Humanity is mere bio-film on the Earth's surface. The sea and sky will endure eons after my petty concerns are forgotten and I am dust. Not eternally, though. (When it evolves into a red giant, the sun will engulf and fry the Earth.) But close enough for humanity's purposes. Comforting. You would enjoy the beauty of this place.

Funny. There are endless ways I miss your company. But I can only come up with a few ways of saying it. As ever,

Me

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, June 2014**

It was June and school would soon let out. With the cooperation of school officials, Lisbon took advantage of the captive student population to push safety tips for the summer. She first got the local newspapers to run stories about kids and traffic, swimming safety, bike safety, and driving safety. Despite a little grumbling from her PD officers, she had them conduct demonstrations in the schools involving a cantaloupe, bike helmet, and sledge hammer (short handled version). A bit graphic, but it made a big impression on the elementary and middle school students. She won the enthusiastic cooperation of her officers when they saw the impact that a few smashed cantaloupes had on the students. Lisbon hadn't spent a decade with a showoff con man without learning something about dramatic impact.

For the high school crowd, Lisbon had the local junk yard park a car in front of each school. Each mangled and crushed car provided silent testimony to a bad accident. She also used the drivers ed training equipment to pose an open challenge to all driving-age teens. The drivers ed simulators were set to mimic the slower reflexes and impaired perception of someone whose blood alcohol level was above the legal limit. Lisbon offered a free pass to the nearest amusement park for any teen who simulated a perfect driving test under alcohol-impaired conditions. This, with a speech by an officer to the student population, was aimed at teen drivers who fancied themselves invincible and preternaturally skilled, despite limited driving experience. Lisbon had to buy passes for a few students. But the point was made for the hundreds who tried and failed. She found it unutterably sad that each past year was marred by at least one teen fatality. She was determined to do everything possible to reduce the chances of that happening on her watch.

Complaints? Lisbon weathered the few complaints she received with the solid backing of the city council. She looked forward to comparing statistics for this summer with past summers. If her campaign was effective, the numbers would convince any remaining doubters.

Lisbon reminded herself that preventing a death was the same as saving a life, even if the safety campaign wasn't particularly exciting or glamourous. Like Jane, she missed the opportunity to use all of her training, experience, and talent. At the same time, she was glad her team was literally out of the line of fire in the continuing Blake Association clean-up. Not all BA members went quietly. Two FBI agents were killed apprehending several former California police officers who turned out to be BA members.

Returning from a morning of school safety presentations, Lisbon found a pink rose on her desk with a printed note: "Lunch at the diner at noon, please." She drew a blank at first, then realized the flower was a name, not a romantic overture, and hurried to the diner. She finished lunch with Rose Turner with a Jane letter tucked safely inside her uniform's breast pocket, smiling a little in anticipation of the evening.

Wine in hand, parked comfortably on her couch, Lisbon was finally able to read Jane's letter.

_What's gotten into you? Who knew cool weather is catnip to Patrick Jane? And, yes, Jane, Grace and Wayne are expecting. She's due next month._

Reading the next paragraph, her smile widened and she flushed with pleasure that he finally felt at peace, was finally ready to move on. It faded a bit at the next. _I wondered when you'd think about what comes next, about your future. I can't believe you're suited to life in a small, remote village. Once you decide what you want, you'll find a way of getting it. Find a way to come back to the US, Jane. You've said you want to work with me again. Make it happen! _She looked away, the team picture on the mantle catching her eye. Not wanting to cry, she returned to reading the letter.

Lips pressed into a thin line, she read the next two paragraphs soberly. _Jane, you're crossing the line. I really __don't__ want to read your ruminations about a love life and fatherhood in your fantasy paradise. _Jaw unconsciously clenched, she set the letter aside, sipped her wine, and leaned back. After a few deep breaths, she picked the letter up and reread those paragraphs. A bit calmer, "_Okay. So you're telling me you _aren't_ going to get together with anyone there, even casually. It's less insulting to tell me _that_, but it doesn't do a helluva lot to get us together. If that's even something you want. You're as difficult and confusing as ever._

She read the rest but found less enjoyment in it than usual. _Just typical over-the-top Jane stuff. Well, yeah, it is kinda interesting, paints a pretty picture. But you can miss my company all you want. The question is, now what? Are you going to do anything about it?_

She folded the letter and added it to the others. She stood a moment in front of the mantle, in front of her favorite photo._ This is more troubling than past letters. He's out of the woods, he's done the basic healing he needed to do. After the murders. After ten years of obsession with revenge. After killing McAllister. It was hard to come to terms with all that, but what he needed to do was clear. Now, God help us both, he has to figure out what he _wants_ to do, who he _wants_ to love. That's not clear at all. I have done everything I can, Jane. I know what I want. Do you? And even if you do, is it even possible?_

She quietly wrapped up the evening, heart heavier than before she read the letter.


	10. Chpt 10-Jul'14-Tyranny of Small Numbers

**South America, eleven months since Red John**

July, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

Health and happiness to you. I remain well, if frustrated.

The tyranny of small numbers is getting to me. We talked (I wrote) about this in the context of village crime. Simply, small-probability events rarely will be seen here. That's good with respect to crime. Not so good if your interests aren't mainstream. Anything I want to do involving people draws from a village population of under one-thousand. In the US, I drew upon three-hundred million. Or, with the Internet, billions across the world. Most of life is made up of ordinary things common to everyone. However, any unusual interests I have are unlikely to be shared within the village. The odds of finding like-minded souls are literally several hundred thousand to several million times smaller in this village than they were in the US.

I could get Internet access if I really wanted. But the risk of discovery rises dramatically. US national security has gotten very good at sifting billions of electronic records to find specific people. I don't think I'm being self-important. It's just that computers make it easy to set up search parameters once and have computers automatically search forevermore. So far, I am unwilling to risk it. (The implications of technology for individual freedom are worrisome, but that's another discussion.)

Would discovery be a disaster? Extradition law is on my side so I wouldn't face arrest. However, once my location is known, the authorities would sit on all ways out of the country. It hasn't even been a year and I'm feeling confined. I want to be able to leave here if I choose.

I've turned to chess, recently. I review classic games and strategies. Sometimes I play both sides of new games in my mind. Addictive. But ultimately, it's limiting to draw only upon myself. It's hard to identify and work on weak strategy by oneself. I have found no one here who plays well.

A young village woman died in childbirth recently. Sobering. From what Franklin tells me, there was no reason to expect she would have problems. Midwives still do many of the deliveries. I'm not sure the local doctor would have done better, anyhow. Bad news is more intimate in such a small village because everyone is connected to everyone else. Even as an outsider I had an indirect connection: Her son is one of the boys I amuse and teach. He's about the same age I was when my mother died. It makes me want to get on with life, claim immortality the only way we can–by having a family. Unlikely.

This isn't the most cheerful letter. Sorry. On the theory that some mail is better than none, I guess I'll send it anyway. I promise to be better company next letter.

You are sorely missed. And ardently appreciated. Would that you were here.

An admirer and friend

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, July 2014**

Lisbon looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Dress slacks, sleek high-heeled dress boots, and silky eggplant top with a draped neckline set off perfectly by her cross and gold earrings. She was just descending the stairs when the doorbell rang.

"John, welcome," she said opening the door and inviting him in.

"You look lovely, Teresa. Ready for dinner?"

"As soon as I get my coat." Lisbon got her coat and let John help her put it on.

Dinner went well. Lisbon found John Billingsley the third polite and good company. They met naturally enough in the course of her work. He was the DA prosecuting the drug dealer her PD had arrested a couple of months earlier. About her age, he was handsome and divorced nearly a year, no kids. His family was among the original settlers. He had deep roots in the area.

Her third date, she invited him in for an after-dinner glass of wine. Or two. He casually strolled around her den, glancing at her books, plaques commemorating her bravery, her CBI record, and her work as a San Francisco officer before that. He paused at the 4"x6" framed photo at the center of the fireplace mantle.

"Is this your CBI team?"

"Yes, it is. How did you know?" she answered with a smile.

"You look about the same age, so it can't be from too long ago. And I know you became police chief in Cannon River right after working for the CBI."

"Insightful."

He laughed, an easy melodic sound. "Not really. I also followed the news when you and your team were all over TV for breaking up that corrupt law-enforcement network. I'm impressed."

"Thank you."

He frowned, looking closely at her. "Mixed feelings?"

"Yeah. The corruption _had_ to be exposed and rooted out. But it's bittersweet because the CBI was disbanded. Gale Bertram was–"

"–was head of the CBI." He paused a moment, then added. "I realize his role cast shadows on all former CBI employees, even though you and your team broke the case. It's totally unfair to you, of course."

She shrugged. "That's almost a year ago. I'm pleased to be working here in Cannon River."

"_I'm_ pleased you're working here in Cannon River. It would be awfully inconvenient trying to date you way off in California."

She rewarded him with another smile. "And now you're flirting. We simply wouldn't have met if I were still in Sacramento."

He stepped closer, hesitated until sure she would not object, and brushed her lips with his. "Fortunately you aren't in Sacramento. And, yes, I have every reason to flirt with the beautiful Cannon River police chief."

She accepted his kiss then, after a moment, stepped away. "Has any of the Blake Association mess affected you, or Washington for that matter?" She stood in front of the team photo, glancing at him sideways.

"I think a judge was implicated and a few low-level police officers in Seattle, of all places. I'm glad the FBI is involved. Throw the book at each and every one."

Lisbon sipped her wine. Looking at him speculatively. "Do you believe going by the book, the strict letter of the law, is always best? Is always...just?"

"Teresa, I'm a DA. I wouldn't be one if I didn't believe in adhering to the laws."

"And justice?"

"I have no divine insight to know what justice is. It's my job to see that the laws are enforced, criminals prosecuted."

"Hmm. I once felt that way, that it was all cut and dried."

"But you don't now?"

"More shades of gray than I used to see." She casually drifted back to the couch. "A nurse whose brother was murdered took a gun and threatened some thugs she thought had killed him. She was all her little brother had, clean record otherwise. It seemed like a waste and injustice to prosecute her, even though there was no question she broke the law."

"Don't you think that should be the DA's call? There's a reason the responsibilities are divided between apprehending suspects, and charging and prosecuting them."

She sighed. "Perhaps. It just seemed pointless in that case."

Genuinely interested in her thinking, "Tell me another case you see in shades of gray."

She turned and faced him. "Red John."

"The serial killer? You'd seriously want to give him benefit of the doubt?"

She shook her head, "No, no. The opposite. Does a serial killer deserve the full due process? And what if he gets off?"

"Everyone deserves full due process. That's what protects us all from government abuse. And if due process results in acquittal then, yes, under our system he deserves to go free."

"And if he's undeniably guilty and is killed by a victim's relative, then what?"

"Then someone is a murderer and has to be prosecuted. Vigilante justice is an abomination. Who gives someone the right to be judge, jury and executioner?"

She murmured, "You're right. Although the future victims and their families might have a hard time accepting that."

Rather brusquely, "Too bad. That's our system. It's a terrible system except that every other system is even worse."

She smiled, "Just like democracy?"

"Just so."

~.~.~.~

John left about an hour later after some friendly kissing on the couch. Lisbon knew he wouldn't mind going further, but she wasn't quite willing. At least not yet. She went upstairs, took her earrings off, took her boots off. Then she snapped her fingers, realizing she had left her purse on the seat of the SUV after coming home from work. It almost certainly would be safe over night. But force of habit compelled her to go out and get it. Unlocking the SUV door, she lifted it from the passenger seat only to be surprised to find an envelope underneath. An airmail envelope. _Leave it to Pete–or Roddy, or Sam, or Rose–to pick the lock, leave Jane's letter, and then lock up again. Good thing these people are on my side. _Back inside she hesitated. It was already late and she was still reflecting on her evening with John. Making her decision, she made tea–_enough wine for one night already_–and took it and the envelope into the den.

Reading the letter...

_Oh, Jane. How could you _not_ be frustrated? You're so high on the IQ scale you need to draw from a population of millions to find people with common interests and comparable abilities. How long will it take you to realize there's nothing for you in some backwater village? Everything you say is true about internet access, cell phone tracking, and protection from extradition. But staying there isn't going to satisfy you for long._

She skimmed the next few paragraphs. The paragraph about the woman dying in childbirth hit closer to home than she wished, with Grace having just delivered her daughter, Madeline. Then she was stunned by the end of that paragraph. _You want a family. You __know__ you want that. And you __know__ no one from that little village will ever be a good fit with you! Come on, Jane! Figure out how to get what you want. "Ardent" works a whole lot better in person, just sayin'._

She carefully folded the letter and added it to the rest. She shed a few tears, not for Jane or herself, but for John Billingsley. A nice man, but like so many others he was a cardboard cutout compared to Patrick Jane. And his simple–_simplistic?!_–black and white morality had long been proven inadequate in her world of innocent nurses, evil serial killers, and one terribly damaged victim's husband and father who was the only one capable of stopping the evil. Her world could never go back to John's easy, black and white guidelines for morality. And she could never go back to a man who would always come up short compared to her constant companion, friend, and partner of nine years. She would keep hoping that somehow she and Jane would have a future together.


	11. Chpt 11-Aug'14-Time To Take Stock

**South America, a year since Red John**

August, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I wish health and happiness to be your constant companions, as I would be under different circumstances. I'm fine, if lonely. This letter will be a little different, because I need to talk about the past a bit.

After a year, it's time to take stock. I deliberately waited to gain a degree of perspective. I find myself immeasurably calmer, saner than I was twelve months ago and finally feel..._qualified_ to tackle the hard questions, to fully own the consequences of my actions. These thoughts do not spring from turmoil and emotional overload. They aren't voiced in hopes of getting something from you. They come from the deepest, most constant part of me.

First things first. Teresa, thank you for everything you have done for me since the first day we met. You surely know I would not have made it through the past ten years without your help, support and kindness. It was never possible for me to live in a world where my family could be murdered without consequence. Had I given up on my goal, I would have given up on life. Know that you bear no responsibility for my actions. I did what I had to do in honor of my family. If there is some final accounting, I will gladly bear the consequences of my act.

Please accept my apologies for all the anguish I brought into your life. In my obsessive commitment to my goal, I am painfully aware I used and hurt the people who have given me the most. You deserved better than that but it was not in me to give at the expense of my quest for vengeance. I am sorry I was not a better person. I cannot guarantee I am a better person now. Only that, given the chance, I will spend the rest of my life trying to be, especially where you are concerned.

After a year, I do not know what life has brought you. In my best moments, I hope you have found love and happiness, and maybe even started a family. If you have not been so blessed–and you deserve no less–I am selfish enough to want to spend my life with you. If you would have me, a lifetime might be long enough to begin making up for the grief I caused you.

My actions triggered the disruption of your career and CBI family. I deeply, deeply regret that cost to you and the team. I cannot regret that a serial killer and corrupt law-enforcement network were stopped, only that it cost you so much. Were there another way, I would have taken it. But I barely managed to accomplish what I did, so I truly do not think I overlooked a better solution. I hope you have found satisfying work and good colleagues since then, while keeping close contact with your old team. If I come by more luck than I deserve, some day perhaps I will once again work with you.

My fondest memories are from my marriage and from the ten years spent with you. That is saying a great deal. Those ten years have been the ten hardest years of my life, made bearable only by you. My world is immeasurably better for your having been in it. I hope to have the pleasure of somehow having you in my life again. Thank you.

Miss you more than ever.

Me

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, August 2014**

Summer nearly over, Cannon River was gearing up for the start of a new school year. Lisbon readied flyers reminding drivers about school buses. Other flyers were posted in bars, reminding drivers about harsh DUI penalties for Labor Day weekend. Standard stuff, nothing exciting. What was exciting were the preliminary accident statistics for the summer. Her summer campaign for traffic, swimming, and biking safety had indeed paid off. Accidents involving kids were way down. Best of all, no teen driving fatalities so far this year.

Rose appeared toward the end of August, this time handing Lisbon a letter as she walked by Lisbon's SUV in the parking lot. Lisbon smiled and palmed the letter in true Jane fashion.

~.~.~.~

The day passed slowly, but evening finally arrived. Lisbon followed her usual ritual: She made dinner, ate, and cleaned up, Jane's letter propped safely on the back-splash ledge. _Un_usual were the mixed feelings roiling below the surface. After the last few letters, she no longer felt unalloyed happiness at receiving a letter. Jane at last was at peace with himself, no longer tormented, no longer guilty and depressed. Judging by his letters, he was lighter, brighter, happier. She longed to know him now, closer to what he had been like before the murder of his family tore him apart and vengeance consumed him for ten years. Putting his past behind him had opened up every facet of his life. Threw into question every aspect of their relationship. _What does he want his future to be? How do I fit in? Do I fit in at all?_ She began reading.

It only took one paragraph before her vision blurred and tears made soft tapping sounds as they dropped onto the paper. She sniffed. _God, Jane. Yes, it was hard, hard for both of us. I know you __had__ to go after Red John. And once I knew you, I __had__ to help you._

_ I'll accept your apologies because disappearing for six months was horrible. And leaving me at that beach damn near ripped my heart out. Not just because you tricked me and left me, but because I thought you would be killed. And how would I live with __myself __if you died when maybe I could have saved you? Selfish bastard._

_ 'Given the chance'? Apologies are nice. It's good you recognize the grief you brought me. But I don't want more apologies, I want a future with you. You hope I've found love and happiness? I have found love. The happiness part requires you to be with me. What's the point of all this if we can't ever be together? What's a year brought me? Just a stronger conviction than ever that no one else will measure up to you._

_ And stop apologizing for an imperfect world! Damn it, Jane. You accomplished the extraordinary. You got Red John and exposed corruption across two dozen states. My cozy little life at CBI was shattered by the rot within CBI, not you. Stop feeling guilty for things that aren't your fault!_

_ Those ten years were the best in my life, too. I used to think career was enough. You proved me so wrong I'll never get over you, you fascinating, aggravating, difficult man! The only amends you can make is to finish what you started. Come live your life with me. I love you. And if this letter means anything, you love me, too. __Do__ something. Fix this!_

Lisbon rose and made her way to the stationery box, blinded by tears. Her chest hurt from too much love and too much longing. She stumbled up to bed, more upset than ever.


	12. Chpt 12-Sep'14-Malibu & The Letter

**South America, one year and a month since Red John**

September, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

Hope this finds you well. All is well here. I want to talk about everyday life a bit. I also want to talk about Malibu. Blanket apologies aren't enough.

The weather remains hot and humid. A tropical storm kept me indoors for most of a week. Sound and fury but little damage. My book order arrived just before the storm. I read those books. I re-read others. The silver lining was the pleasure of getting out and hiking after so much time indoors. With all the swimming and hiking, I've lost the fat I accumulated at CBI. I feel better than I have for years. But then it's hard to parse how much is attributable to the sun and exercise and how much to the end of my 10 year quest.

I traveled to two cities this month to visit a museum of fine art and a museum on local history. The museums were modest, but I learned things nonetheless. I found a library with Internet access and played on-line chess and surfed the web. Fun. I took care to avoid anything that could reveal my identity.

Traveling around felt good. It was a pleasure to enjoy a variety of ethnic cuisines again. The music and dancing draw upon all the influences woven into the nation's history. Very enjoyable, lacking only the pleasure of your company. The cities are cosmopolitan and attract a variety of tourists. It was great listening in on English conversations. Since returning to the village, I've thought about working in a city. Unfortunately, an American would stand out. Any performing gigs would cross paths with tourists and be way too visible. The good? After the frustrations of the past few months, this was a welcome break in my routines. The bad? I want more.

It's over a year since I left. It feels like an eternity after the events which landed me here. Distancing myself from the past is what I sought and found. The downside is the time and physical distance away from you and other friends. One thing I learned from traveling around is that friendships depend on shared experiences, on daily interaction. When my wife and I broke with our former lives, people tended to edit us out of the picture. I couldn't blame them–after all, we were the ones who left. It was an unwelcome discovery. I don't want that to happen again, but am powerless to prevent it other than by writing to you. I am more at peace with myself than I have been for over 10 years. That will have to be enough. For the moment.

Now I have to apologize for leaving you on the beach on the way to Malibu. Most important, know that everything I said was true. You have no idea how much you've meant to me, how much you mean to me. It was cruel to leave you, if only because you had to wonder if I was sincere. I was. I left you because I didn't want you within a hundred miles of the people I was meeting. Any harm to you would be unforgivable. And if you died, I would too. With the benefit of hindsight, I am eternally grateful you weren't there because you _could_ have been hurt or killed by what occurred. I don't expect you to see it my way. Just know that I was sincere in what I said and that I was trying to protect you. If we have a future, maybe we won't face such harrowing choices anymore. There's nothing more I can do, nothing more to say. Please forgive me.

I send this hoping time has healed both of us. Missing you,

Your greatest and most constant admirer

**~.~.~.~**

**Washington State, September 2014**

Henry gave Lisbon the statistical report on summer accidents involving kids complete with comparisons to previous summers. The final numbers were in line with the preliminary ones. She made a point of forwarding a copy to the city council. She also called a local reporter and asked if the newspaper might run a story about the safety campaign (they would).

School back in session, everyday life was even calmer. The big change was the possibility of rowdy or drunken behavior at the high school football games. She was watching the crowd for possible problems at one of the first games of the season–a showcase pre-season game with a neighboring rival high school. After bumping her shoulder, she unexpectedly found herself standing next to Roddy Turner, who was wolfing down a hotdog from the concession stand. Without saying a word, he grinned and handed her the envelope. Folded in two, it was just about invisible in his huge hand. She grinned in return, mouthed "Thank you" because the screaming fans made conversation impossible, and slipped it into her pocket. When she looked around again, he was lost in the crowd.

~.~.~.~

After the game, after overseeing traffic control to get the fans _safely_ out of the parking lot, and after her ten minute commute home, it was at last time to read the letter. Lisbon set it on the counter while she changed clothes and got a soda. It was too late for the caffeine in coffee and football somehow just didn't trigger a taste for a nice glass of wine.

Lisbon retired to her den with the soda and envelope, but just sat for a few minutes without moving to open and read the letter. She had re-read Jane's last letter a dozen times, each reading bittersweet. That was the closest he had ever come to openly declaring his feelings, his intentions. But the practical reality is that he was (literally!) farther than ever from being in a position to act on them. She swallowed uncomfortably. _Here I am again. He might as well just say it: "Trust me." I have no way of resolving this situation. Even if I wanted to go to him, was willing to live abroad...forever, I don't even have an address. Realistically, it wouldn't work. I am a cop. I need to be a cop. Being a fugitive from justice would kinda get in the way. Sooner or later I'd resent Jane for making me choose. Stalemate. You're the genius, Jane. You've got to figure something out._ She took a deep breath and plunged into reading the latest Jane letter.

She read the first two paragraphs and smiled. _Fat?! Jane, when you were upset you forgot to eat, you lost weight unintentionally. No doubt the swimming and hiking are good for you, but someone's notion is off and I don't think it's mine. I'm happier you're not under such stress anymore. That couldn't be good for you._ She snorted. _Aside from the homicidal maniacs and serial killers, that is. _She relaxed a bit, relieved this letter wasn't so intense.

_Traveling around is good. Sounds like the Jane I know. Like I keep saying, Jane, you are _not_ well-suited to being stuck in an isolated village with nothing going on. And I think it's good you want more travel, more going on. Incentive._

She sighed at the next paragraph. _No one who matters to you is gonna forget you. Pete and Sam? Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt? Not a chance. As for me, I've tried to distance myself for sheer self-protection and you're more on my mind than ever. Worse, I don't have all the paperwork that your stunts and smart mouth generated at CBI to remind me what a pain in the ass you can be. No, I miss you more than ever._

She read the Malibu paragraph. Her hand holding the letter dropped to her lap. In a moment she reread the paragraph. _You're right, Jane. I _don't_ see it the same way. _She took a sip of her soda_. I realized you meant what you said. I can read you pretty well, just like you can read me. But that doesn't change the fact that you wouldn't let me help you, help keep you safe. You held five men at bay, four of them trained law officers. You're no good with weapons. What the hell were you thinking?! In keeping me physically safe, you were damned careless in keeping my heart safe. How would I have felt if you had been killed when I might have been able to protect you?_

She leaned back and closed her eyes. Unbidden, a subversive thought crept in. _Maybe there were no good choices. You'd been through hell when Red John put his mark on me. Getting Red John's call on my phone must have been just as bad for you as Malibu was for me. Yeah. Maybe we won't have to face such awful choices anymore. I forgive you, Jane, so long as you promise to work with me from now on. No more flying solo._ Then she set the letter aside on the couch. _That is, if there is any working together in the future._

She folded and put away the letter. She was more at peace after this letter than after the last one. She had no control whatsoever. But, she surprised herself. She did have hope now that Jane was feeling better, was getting restless. She grimaced, _I'm just gonna have to trust him. I'll pray for a little divine help, too._

_~.~.~.~_

**California, September 2014**

Grace Van Pelt was picking up the mail at the post office. She did a quick sort, frowning at getting junk mail even in a PO box. Just about done, she turned and bumped into a large man with long gray hair.

"Sorry," she muttered automatically.

"I got in your way. Miss, I have something for you," He said unexpectedly, holding out an airmail envelope.

"Excuse me? Who are you?" she asked, looking up without accepting the envelope.

"Uh, a friend of a friend. He said you might need a little convincing."

Van Pelt squared her shoulders. "Look. I'm late and in no mood for some scam."

He put his hand out, not quite touching her arm. "Please. He told me three things to convince you. One of you, the Asian fellow, doesn't like pineapple on his pizza. The tall fellow will eat almost anything. My friend helped him out with a problem with his dad, Steve. And you lost a bet when he read your pencil as you wrote out the answer."

Van Pelt felt her mouth drop open. "How do you know him? Where is he?"

"We go way back. He's out of the country, don't know an address."

Thinking quickly, "What kind of house do you have?"

He smiled, "An Airstream. –Please, it's just a letter." She accepted it this time. Glancing at the envelope, it was addressed with her name and her former address. She recognized Jane's handwriting, too.

"What's your name? How do I contact you?"

"No point in bothering with names or in contacting me. I'm only getting his letters delivered. –Oh, he said you might also know the tall fellow. Can you get his letter to him?"

"Yes. We're married."

He extended a second envelope. The second one was addressed to Wayne Rigsby at his old address.

"Thank you."

"Thank you, Miss. You wouldn't know where this fellow is, would you?" The third envelope was addressed to Kimball Cho. Van Pelt knew Cho was training in Quantico, VA, but wasn't comfortable giving out any information.

"I'm not comfortable saying, but he will get the letter if you send it to that address."

"Will do. Thanks." The big man turned and shambled away.

~.~.~.~

"Wayne, Wayne! Where are you?" Van Pelt called, tearing into their apartment.

"Grace, what is it?" Rigsby charged into the kitchen, still holding Maddie after just having changed her diaper. "What's wrong, Grace?" He was relieved to see her smiling. _A good surprise, then._

"Nothing! Could be good. Here, read this and tell me what you think!" She took Maddie from his arms and busied herself warming a bottle of milk.

Rigsby read it, then re-read it. "It's gotta be Jane. He's really going to try to finagle his way back. And into the FBI?!"

"Yeah. That's how I read it." She tested the milk for temperature, then cradled Maddie in her arms and fed her the bottle of milk.

Rigsby frowned, "Any chance it could be a trap? I mean, I don't trust Abbott at all."

"Let me tell you what happened." After Grace related the story, they agreed it seemed to be legitimate–or at least as legitimate as anything involving Jane ever was. Just to be sure, they called Lisbon and fished for a description of Jane's carny friends, recognizing Pete when she described him. They quelled Lisbon's suspicions by mentioning that they had gotten a letter, but omitted any mention of Jane's plan. Rigsby's letter was identical to Van Pelt's.

~.~.~.~

September, 2014

Dear Grace,

Yes, "unexpected" is the word. This letter is a plea to help me out one more time. You and the others have already helped me more times in more ways than I can count. I'm hoping you haven't lost the habit.

The last year has been great and I'm finally able to move on. I want to return to something like my former life. The CBI was disbanded and, even if a replacement agency has been established, I doubt former CBI agents will be welcome. Bertram's role in the Blake Association tarnished everyone connected to the CBI. So that leaves the FBI. The FBI is the investigative bureau handling the BA clean-up–a natural fit.

I need your help in setting the stage for my doing consulting work for the FBI. I know it's a long shot, but it's within the FBI's power to get the charges against me dismissed. In return, I could help the FBI solve cases much as I helped the CBI. I need your help in making the FBI _want_ to use me as a consultant and therefore _want_ to drop the charges. That appears to be my best bet for getting back to the US legally.

What I need from you is pretty straightforward. I need you to help publicize the great track record of the unit, and especially me. (I'm sorry I once again would get credit for team accomplishments, but now is not the time for me to have an outbreak of humility.) Karen Cross, the media hound, always liked me and was keen on getting glitzy high-profile news stories. Would you contact her and offer to provide details on the unit's–my–track record? Maybe you could include background on how we figured out the BA network? If she could drag it out over several months by making it a series of specials, all the better. Someone high up in the FBI needs to see me as part of the solution to their problems solving tough cases.

Groveling aside, I don't want you to jeopardize your situation. I have no idea where you ended up or the constraints you face. I would be grateful for any help you can give me. If this doesn't work, I'll figure something else out.

Business aside, I miss you all. Working with you was the best ten years of my life–you know, aside from the complications posed by serial killers and other lowlife vermin. I am sorry exposing the BA disrupted your careers. I have confidence that people of your talent will be embraced elsewhere. Finally, please do not tell our former boss what I'm up to. I don't want to raise hopes in case I fail.

Unfortunately, this is one-way communication. There is no return address for obvious reasons. Thank you for any help you can give me. Somehow, I _will_ see you all again.

Fondly,

Your friend and tormentor


	13. Chpt 13-Oct'14-Vegas & A Letter for Cho

**South America, a year and two months since Red John**

October, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I trust this finds you well. All is well here.

The summer is over so any problems with letter delivery should vanish. That reminds me of our visit with my– our–friends in October a few years ago. Do you recall? That BBQ was such a normal, relaxing day it shines in contrast to the other 700-odd days of those final two, grim years. I'm glad you hit it off with my friends. As I've said a few (dozen) times, to know you is to love you–cop notwithstanding. Who would have imagined such an interesting, rewarding relationship between up-tight cop and dodgy con man?

The thermometer says it's cooler, not that you would notice. I've been thinking about architecture, lately. The thick stucco walls are perfect for this climate. The walls slow the transmission of heat from outside to inside. The day's heat doesn't penetrate inside till the cool(er) nighttime when the heat might even be welcome.

I get annoyed by simplistic arguments about the ideal architecture–as though there could be only one. Form follows function. People in every corner of the planet have devised amazing solutions to deal with local conditions. You seemed to think I appreciate only modern architecture. Yes, I do appreciate clean, uncluttered lines, but my only absolute criterion is that it can't be stupid. Poor design always irks me. Why not do it well if you bother to do it at all? Of course, this applies to everything. It doesn't have to be expensive, just intelligently thought through and well made.

Time for more owning up. When Red John sent that little girl to ask if I gave up, he handed me a new line of attack. The fact that he _cared_ if I gave up was the clue that led me to fake a breakdown. I knew you wouldn't like my vanishing act. In truth, I didn't expect it to take six months for him to take the bait. I didn't see any other way to do it. The CBI and FBI were infiltrated by Red John supporters. I _had_ to assume he had access to everything–computer systems, phone monitoring, Internet, mail, office bugging, home bugging, everything. Any contact would have given it away. I had to act as if I really were having a breakdown. In conning someone as smart as Red John, you don't finish your shift, change clothes and go home to dinner. By the way, pretending to be depressed is damned depressing. I badly missed you and the CBI. I don't know if I could have stuck it out if I had reminders of what I was missing.

To be honest, I was too much of a coward to tell you ahead of time. I dreaded being cut off from you and the team. If you voiced a spirited argument, I might not have gone through with it at all. Nonetheless, I should have warned you something was up, told you not to worry even if things seemed to go south. I was selfish and obsessed. I didn't realize how hard it was for you till we met in the church. My Vegas "breakdown" got me one step closer to Red John, but I could–and should-have made it easier on you. I am sorry I wasn't a better man. I am sorry it cost you six months of anguish.

I've been here a year, but at least I can send you letters. Hope you haven't given up on me.

Your Partner

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, October 2014**

Cannon River was in a lull, crime-wise. Lisbon shook her head and leaned back in her "executive" desk chair. _A lull inside a lull. I bet the whole PD could disappear for two weeks and no one would notice._ The phone rang, startling her out of her reverie. Henry was at lunch and the patrol officers were out making their rounds, so she was covering the phones.

_ "Cannon River Police Department. How may help you? ... Yes, this is Police Chief Lisbon. ... Karen Cross, from the California TV media? ... I have no current connections to California law enforcement. The CBI no longer exists and I certainly have no authority to speak for that organization. ... You're doing a story on my former Serious Crimes Unit? Why? ... Why not contact Special Agent Abbott of the Austin, Texas FBI? He's managing the clean up of the Blake Association members. ... Ms. Cross, I'm glad you have other sources, but I really am in no position to comment. ... Yes, of course I prefer that any news be accurate. ... Look, the most I am willing to do is confirm the accuracy of information you already have. ... Tomorrow. You may call at 9:00 a.m. and I'll block out an hour. ... You're welcome. Talk to you tomorrow."_

Lisbon sat back and rubbed her temple. _Karen Cross is irritating, but she's sharp. Where did she get all the info? And why is she so damned interested in a unit that was disbanded over a year ago? Watch your step, Teresa. I'd better not tread on Abbott's prerogatives or I'll have him back on my ass._

Lisbon left work promptly at 5:00 p.m. As she stepped outside her door, she was annoyed to see a car up on a jack right behind her SUV. A big man with gray hair was changing a tire.

Catching sight of her, the man called out, "Sorry, officer. I'll be out of your way as soon as I put on the spare."

Lisbon walked over and smiled down at Pete. Quietly, "You know, Pete, you sure go to a lot of trouble. When are you going to let me pay for the gas, at least?"

Pete had the spare tire on and was tightening the nuts. "This is my chance to return a favor to Paddy."

"I understand about family, Pete. What's that have to do with my reimbursing you for the gas?"

"Ch–_Teresa_, I could do this for ten years and not make a dent in what I owe Paddy. He bought Sam and me the Airstream, brand new, just before the murders. Just gave it to us."

She swallowed. Softly, "Oh. So long as you're okay with this arrangement."

"As long as he needs my help." Pete got to his feet, wiped his hands on his pants, then shook her hand, palming Jane's letter and transferring it to her. Pete got into the car and pulled away. Lisbon left and was home in ten minutes.

~.~.~.~

Dinner over, the kitchen cleaned up, Lisbon settled onto her couch with wine glass and letter in hand.

She smiled at the memory of the barbeque. _That barbeque was the first time Sam relaxed and decided a cop could be human after all. She told me all about you, Jane._ Lisbon's smile faded as she recalled some details Sam had shared about Jane's rough childhood. _Sam and Pete really are your family–more than your real father, for sure. Yeah, I remember the barbeque and how relaxed you were. A welcome break from your Red John hunt. I'm __so__ glad that's all over._

_Architecture? Who are you arguing with, Jane? I never thought much about it. Some modern is cold and sterile. Some–especially when a house is graced with lots of wood–is sleek and beautiful without being cold. Good design, huh? Hate to break this to you, my extraordinary friend, but some things are designed by average people. They may not measure up to your impossible standards._

Lisbon read the next paragraph and had to stop and sip her wine before she could continue. _It was agonizing thinking you had a breakdown. I couldn't find you, couldn't help you, couldn't even __see__ if you were okay. I didn't know if Red John would go after you. _She swallowed the lump in her throat, her feelings about that period raw even after two-and-a-half years.

After reading the next paragraph, she had to put the letter down. She got up to look at the photograph on the mantle. She said aloud, as much to the photo as to herself, slowly, "I never thought this was hard for you as well–not as hard as you're telling me. You were always so...contained, so coldly self-possessed. I thought nothing could keep you from doing what you needed to do to get Red John. Yeah, you _could_ have given me a heads up without tipping your hand. But maybe it took someone with an obsessive commitment to be able to get Red John. Could you have caught him if you were more reasonable, had you not been obsessed?"

She returned to the couch and sank down next to the letter. _I keep assuming you could have been a reasonable person and still gotten Red John. What if I'm wrong? Everything would be worse if Red John was still out there. He would still be killing. You would be as trapped in grief and rage as you ever were. And I would be no better off, watching that case slowly grind you down. How many near misses could you handle before it broke you?_ She shivered. _I'm glad it ended when it did. Maybe you did the best you could. You got Red John. Who am I to say you could have done it more perfectly? I need to accept that and let it go._

She put the letter away, finished her wine and set the glass in the sink. She took one last look at the photo, turned the light off, and went upstairs to her bedroom. _Jane, I am profoundly grateful you got Red John. I'll never give up on you._

_~.~.~.~_

**Virginia, October 2014**

The weather in Virginia was beautiful late that Saturday afternoon. Kimball Cho was in Quantico training at the FBI Academy. He had some time to himself and decided to travel to DC for dinner with an old friend from the Army Rangers. He borrowed a car and drove toward the I-95 entrance ramp, but nearly rear-ended an old pick-up truck which stopped short in front of him for no apparent reason. The driver got out and appeared to be dizzy or ill, holding on to the side of the truck to stay on his feet. Cho frowned, pulled over and walked toward the big, gray-haired man. Something didn't seem quite right, but the man wasn't threatening, didn't have a weapon so far as he could see. There were no passengers and there was nothing nearby that looked threatening.

"Are you okay, mister?"

"I'm a little dizzy."

Cho closed the distance, and took the man by his arm. "Sit down on the grass over here," he said, guiding him around the truck to the grass. "How do you feel? Any other symptoms?"

The man sat down on the grassy roadside, leaning back on his hands. "I'm feeling better, thanks. Say, what's your name, son?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I have a letter for someone. A Kimball–"

Cho backed up a step, grabbed the man's right arm and held it straight behind his back, effectively immobilizing him. Cho reached for his gun with his other hand and bit back a curse as he realized he didn't have it on him. Wary and cold, "Who are you? Now!"

"Easy, son. I'm a friend of a friend."

Cho pulled up on the arm a bit, enough for it to be painful. "Try again."

"I'm Paddy's carny friend. Ease off, son. I don't bite."

"Paddy?"

Huffing a bit from the pain, "Jane. Patrick Jane."

"What do you want from me?"

"I have a letter for you."

"When I let go of your arm, you're going to lean back on both arms, feet out straight. Then we can talk." The man did as he was told.

The man rubbed his shoulder with his left hand, then positioned himself as directed. "Paddy said you'd be hard to approach. Look. He told me three things that should convince you I'm on the up and up."

"Which are?"

"You hate pineapple on your pizza. You have a friend from the CBI who'll eat just about anything. Paddy helped him with a problem with his dad, Steve. And the red head woman agent lost a bet with Paddy. Paddy cheated by reading her pencil as she wrote out the answer."

Relaxing a bit, "So what do you want?"

"The envelope on the passenger seat is for you."

"Get up, lean against the truck, hands on the roof, feet back. Now, take one hand and open the passenger side door. ... Put your hand back on the roof." Cho reached inside and got the envelope. Glancing at the outside, it was addressed to him and he recognized Jane's handwriting.

"Okay. I'll take the envelope. Anything more?"

"Do you have any kind of ID? I'd like to be sure I delivered it to the right person."

Cho fished out his wallet, covered everything but his name on his driver's license, and showed it to the man. "Now, who are you and how do I get in contact with you?"

"I'm Pete, from the carnival. Our layover is in Carson Springs, California. You don't need to contact me, I don't have an address for Paddy or anything. I'm just doing a friend a favor."

Cho took the truck keys out of the ignition. "I'm going to toss your keys over there and then drive away. Don't follow me. And I don't want to see you again. –You don't expect to have any more envelopes for me, do you?"

"Not for a while, anyhow."

"Uh, thanks." Cho tossed the keys a good fifty feet away, memorized the license plate, and drove onto the I-95 entrance ramp. He pulled out his cell and called Rigsby. Rigsby shared what he knew and Cho finally concluded that Pete's story checked out.

When Cho arrived at his destination, he parked and read the letter. He bought a lighter at a corner drugstore, entered the men's room, locked the door, and lit the letter. He dropped it into the toilet just before it burned his fingers and he flushed the ashes. _Damn it, Jane. You're a wanted fugitive. I do not need that letter around. You're just as crazy and unpredictable as ever._ The corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile as he unlocked the door. _Yeah. You and the FBI. I've gotta think about that._

By the time he got back from his visit, he had his decision. He couldn't have anything to do with the media, of course. He certainly couldn't advocate on behalf of Jane (n_ot exactly a good fit with the FBI). _But he didn't see any harm in telling the truth about Jane's contribution to the CBI. The fact that his unit closed every case assigned. And cracked the corrupt Blake Association network. And ID'd Red John. _Yeah, that should keep people talking in the FBI. Who knows? Jane's plan may even work._


	14. Chpt 14-Nov'14-Love You & Lorelei

**South America, a year and three months since Red John**

November, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

I've thought more about Vegas. Two things I need to own. Before I "shot" you I said I loved you. I did love you. I do love you. And of course I remembered what I said. Real emotion, lousy timing. Teresa, I couldn't _afford_ to be in love with you then. I was terrified Red John would go after you. It was bad enough he wanted your dead body as a sign of my fidelity to him (_that_ is one twisted concept). And I couldn't trust myself. I was sick of Red John, of focusing for years on the most horrific event in my life. I was so tempted to lose myself in loving you. And then I'd destroy myself, and probably you too, with regret and self‑loathing for abandoning my duty to my family. I shouldn't have said it-not then. Having said it, I am sorry I pretended I didn't remember. You deserve better. At the very least you deserve honesty.

The second matter is Lorelei. Absent a commitment, I don't owe anyone explanations for private behavior between consenting adults. But you are a special case. By rights, the first woman since my wife should have been you. Heaven knows how much I wanted you-want you. Lorelei was a weapon used against us just as much as a gun or Red John's knife ever was.

Lorelei served me drinks a few times in Vegas. Six months after I left the CBI, she came to the bar I was hanging out at and started a conversation. I assaulted Oscar to keep him from breaking my arms and legs over a fake psychic reading, and then got arrested. I thought you put up bail. Lorelei turned up at my motel the next day with soup. She had put up the bail. She stayed and we talked. We had sex. _That was the only time_. The next morning she told me Red John had posted my bail and had given me the night with her. That's how he opened the conversation, the overture to make me his disciple.

The first person I was with since my wife was _Red John's mistress, there at his direction. _Lorelei wasn't a carrot to advertise the new life he offered. She was an attack and I walked right into it. If you want to break someone, turn someone, first destroy his self‑respect. I didn't know Lorelei would use it against you in interrogation. In another life, another universe, she and I might have had a relationship. I was sorry for her, for her life. Later, the fact that she knew Red John's name was nearly irresistible. But it was never love. It was never anything like my feelings for you. I am sorry I hurt you. This is something I badly want to put behind us. It's one of many Red John scars: One left on you through my weakness.

Re-reading this, it sounds calm, rational. It was anything but when I was living it. I was terrified Red John would discover the depth of my feelings for you. If he knew, he would hurt or kill you to control and punish me. By the final few years, my obsession with revenge was matched by Red John's obsession with me. I had no choice but to take it to the bitter end. "Either I catch you. Or you catch me." Lisbon, I was half-crazy, still grieving for my family, and terrified that, sooner or later, you would end up under his smiley face. The night Red John put his mark on you nearly pushed me over the edge. This does not excuse the times I hurt you and failed you. But I hope it explains how I could be negligent and cruel while claiming to be your friend and partner. It required every ounce of discipline and every con trick I knew to maintain a facade of control and an arm's-length relationship with you. None of it was real. I am sorry I couldn't do better.

I miss you. I have no right, but I pray you continue to miss me too.

Your partner

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, November 2014**

"Please pass the gravy," Rigsby asked, reaching to get it from Lisbon.

"I'm so glad you were able to come up."

"How did you get Thanksgiving and the whole weekend off? You're such a great boss you usually work the holidays yourself."

"I lucked out, Grace. Jim Peterson's wife is visiting family back East. He had to stay and tend some sick livestock on the farm. So he volunteered to cover the day shift from Thanksgiving through Sunday. Voila!

"This is really good, boss-"

"Wayne, I'm–

"–not your boss," they finished together with matching grins.

"I'm glad you like it. It's been years since I cooked a full-blown turkey dinner. A couple of times Jane and I did a mini-Thanksgiving, but that was it."

Rigsby was suddenly engrossed in helping three-year-old Ben cut up his meat. Van Pelt glanced at her husband and decided to take pity on him by relieving the tension.

"Speaking of Jane, we got a letter out of the blue," offered Van Pelt.

Lisbon's eyebrows rose in surprise and inquiry. "And?"

"It wasn't much. Sounds like he's feeling better. Happier. Maybe he misses the CBI."

"I know he misses it. Irrelevant though so long as he's exiled from the US."

"What about Abbott? Is he still after Jane?"

"Jane's smart enough to land somewhere without an extradition treaty. Abbott can't touch him."

Rigsby finally chimed in, "Well, it's a pity he can't come back. Jane did this country a lot of good by cracking the Blake Association. No one's gonna shed tears for McAllister, either."

"Water under the bridge. We did everything we could to help him. It's his life. He has to figure out what to do going forward. –Hey, have you heard anything from Karen Cross, the TV expose queen?"

Rigsby choked as he swallowed a sip of wine. Van Pelt thumped him on the back while she answered, "Yeah. Cross contacted us, sniffing around."

Lisbon looked at her speculatively. "She seemed to have a lot–a _lot_–of solid information. Where could she have learned that?"

"We helped her out some," Van Pelt replied calmly, thumping her husband's back again as he had another paroxysm of coughing.

"Sorry. Went down the wrong way," he managed hoarsely.

Lisbon smiled. "I thought you might be involved." She sat back in her chair. "Look. Ordinarily I don't like feeding the media sharks. But CBI is gone. Our unit is gone. And you two have no legal obligations or constraints. If helping Cross gets you a little free publicity for your agency, more power to you."

"I'm relieved to hear you say that. Frankly, we wouldn't mind some exposure. But more than that, I'm still pissed that all the terrific work your–"

"–our," interjected Lisbon.

"–unit did was overshadowed by Bertram's corruption. I _want_ to set the record straight," said Van Pelt intensely.

"If you stick with verifiable facts, why not?" Lisbon agreed easily.

~.~.~.~

Dinner was over by 7 p.m. They visited while Ben played with toys they had brought and Maddie slept in her portable playpen. Rigsby and Van Pelt went up to Lisbon's guest bedroom by 10 p.m., kids in tow. Lisbon smiled at how thoroughly two kids wore them out. _Of course, the long drive up here contributed._

Lisbon idly checked out the large fruit basket that had been delivered yesterday. She was baking pies and making side dishes in preparation for Thanksgiving dinner the next day and had barely given it a glance. She thought it was sent by the City Council, a professional acquaintance, or local business organization. She opened the card and was surprised to find a folded paper inside. _Air mail envelope! Jane!_ The house was quiet. She glanced upstairs and was reassured that everyone else was asleep. She took a glass of cider and the envelope into the den. Flames from the fireplace leapt and danced, disconcertingly wild and cozy at the same time.

_So, Jane, nothing about Thanksgiving or life in your little paradise? All about Vegas, about Lorelei? I don't know what to make of you. As s_he read further, her faint smile faded and sadness replaced the warm Thanksgiving afterglow.

_ I realized you couldn't admit what you said. That's why I didn't push it at the time. It still hurt. And I never had any inkling you were tempted to give up. Damn it, Jane, you could have let me in, told me how hard it was for you. I could have helped you more instead of feeling shut out and adding to the pressure._

_ Oh, God, Lorelei! I hated how she whipsawed you, how she played us. I could read you enough to tell you liked her. How could you like her when you knew your night with her–just one?!–was an attack by Red John? The thought of Red John...arranging...that night is repulsive, nauseating. Then you had to bear that becoming public, first in interrogation and then in front of Judge Manchester, the FBI drones, Bertram and me. Bertram! Blake Association and Red John man. Another humiliation, even if we didn't know at the time. And I thought she really was your lover all the while you were in Vegas. I was jealous, like some naive school girl. This was abuse, rape by proxy._

_ You were obsessed with turning her, getting her to betray Red John. Were you trying to erase the humiliation? I couldn't understand you at the time. I sensed some twisted bond. Sex. Revenge. Attraction. Humiliation. I think you were half-crazed, Jane. How the hell did we get through this? You killed McAllister, strangled him. But somehow your inherent decency kept you from outright torture, even after all he did to your family. And to you. No wonder you needed a clean break, regardless of the charges._

_ Jane, we both have to leave this in the past. I have to accept you did the best you could in accomplishing something extraordinary. If you mean it, if you love me now, you'll have to accept it will take time for me to fully trust you again. You're being amazingly candid in these letters. Can you do it in person? Let me in? Tell me the truth?_

_ For both of us, I hope so._


	15. Chpt 15-Dec'14-Desert Argument

**South America, a year and four months since Red John**

December, 2014

Dear Lisbon,

This is Christmas and Thanksgiving rolled into one, since I missed mentioning it last letter. I hope you are gloriously happy and healthy. With the cooler weather, I'm close to euphoric myself. Except for missing you, of course. You remain at the top of my list for giving thanks. Our friends are high up there, too.

My life provided me no experience with teams till I met you. I used to think I didn't need anyone except my family. That notion was demolished once I experienced being part of your team. Now I miss you all so badly at times I ache. On the other hand, I'm not so sure people were meant to work in large organizations. With egos, hidden agendas, unclear goals, tangled (mangled?) communication, and an ordinary measure of incompetence, I was periodically amazed everyone didn't just cancel each other's efforts out. It was an interesting, rewarding ride that some day I _will_ resume.

I've been swimming as much as possible before jellyfish mating season starts in late December. Their countless numbers will make for a sea of pain for any swimmers. Franklin has invited me for a nighttime boat ride to go see them again when the time is right. In fact, Franklin's family has invited me to join them for Christmas. I think they've adopted me, maybe out of pity that I'm such a fish out of water around here. What a difference a year makes! I have a few favorite things to anticipate. Being happier, I'll be better able to enjoy them. It's not enough to make a life, but it is better.

I went to the city again to earn money. Franklin's brother is doing well, but treatment will take another six months. Treatment costs are covered. Travel costs are not. The travel expenses are hurting the family, despite Franklin working seven days a week to earn more at the hotel. I did a few pick-up performances to generate more money. Franklin's father is a carpenter and I plan to hire him to make me a better bed (my back isn't getting any younger). I prefer to find a way for the family to _earn_ the money they need because outright charity is so destructive. The performances were fun, different from my routine here. I'm gonna have to answer, "What next?" soon or face terminal boredom.

Fun topics aside, here is the last of my major mea culpa's. (At least I think so. If you disagree, we'll have to talk it out whenever we are together again.) If it isn't blindingly obvious, I am truly sorry I argued with you about the phone traces you placed on the Red John suspects. I should have handled it differently, not argued with you. After we did argue, I should never have let you go till we resolved it. I let you go off alone and it could have gotten you killed. I am grateful beyond words that he did nothing more harmful than put his mark on your face. I promise never to be so hard headed again. We will find a way to compromise, to agree. I am sorry, Teresa.

Have a Merry Christmas. I hope you get to see some of the team over the holidays.

You know who

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, December 2014**

Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt would arrive the Friday after Christmas. Cho flew from Virginia to California to share Christmas with his family, but would drive up with the Rigsby family. Rigsby and Van Pelt were in Sacramento on Christmas day so Ben could share it with his mother Sarah Harridan and them. Sarah was okay with Ben going with them to visit Lisbon the following Friday. After many a lonely Christmas when her brothers couldn't be bothered for one reason (_excuse!_) or another, Lisbon was thrilled she would share the holiday with her CBI family, even if it was two days later. Even if Jane was in Venezuela.

Arriving home after the PD party on Christmas Eve, Lisbon brought in the box that was propped against her door. She lifted the decorated pine wreath out and held it up to admire. _Pretty, but who would send me this?_ The card said, "To: Teresa Lisbon. Merry Christmas. From: A friend of a friend." There was nothing more in the box or on the wreath itself. Looking more closely, she finally noticed a rolled up airmail envelope in the decorative toy french horn. _Ah ha! I'm getting better at this._ Still full after the party, she had a light snack and brought her coffee and the envelope into the den to read.

_Merry Christmas, Jane. And-why not?-happy Thanksgiving, too. It amazed all of us how well you fit into the team, at least once the learning curve was over._

_I'm glad you're finding things to look forward to. I'm glad Franklin's family has embraced you. And I bet it isn't pity. Jane, you underestimate them. Someone put up the money for his brother's treatment. And just when they need money for travel costs, you happen to need a bed built. Do you think you're the only one who notices coincidences that are too good to be true? Who else in the village would even have the means to be an anonymous benefactor? Try as you might to deflect attention, people who bother to look notice the good in you._

Her mellow mood evaporated and her frown deepened as she read his apology for arguing that day in the diner. _Jane, there's plenty of stuff you can apologize for, but that argument isn't one of them. I've spent ten years watching you punish yourself for Red John's crimes. You need you to stop feeling guilty when it isn't your fault. It took two of us to argue. Instead of hashing it out, I went around you to have Grace put those traces on the phones. That was weak and dishonest. I tripped over two of your absolutes–lying to you and manipulating you. I stormed off. I didn't take your calls. And then I did _exactly_ what you predicted. I let Red John use those traces to lead me into a dark, abandoned house without back-up where a Red John suspect was located. Don't you dare apologize for my stupidity and stubbornness. Yes, we need to get better at compromise. But I don't want you feeling guilty because I screwed up. I need you to own your mistakes and nothing more. I'm not perfect, either. _She swallowed the lump in her throat and sat still till she was again calm.

She drank the rest of her coffee, folded the letter and put it into the box with the rest. She got ready for midnight mass, then prayed for both of them when there. The beauty of the season and the Christmas message prevailed. She left mass with hope that somehow things would work out.

~.~.~.~

"How's Quantico, Cho?" asked Rigsby, playing with Ben on the rug in Lisbon's den. Christmas tree lights twinkled and flames flickered in the fireplace as they relaxed after eating dinner and exchanging gifts.

"Rigorous. More bureaucratic than the CBI ever was. Learning a lot."

Shifting Maddie in her arms, Van Pelt asked, "When do you finish up? Know where you're going yet?"

"March. Abbott recommended me when I applied and asked for me when I finish."

"Smart move by Abbott," Lisbon said.

"So you're going over to the dark side?" Van Pelt said, attitude showing.

"Don't see it that way. Wouldn't we have done the same as Abbott if we came into a situation like the Blake Association?"

Rigsby and Van Pelt frowned. Lisbon shrugged and answered, "Maybe. I didn't appreciate having him ignore our track record. _And_ the fact that we were the ones to break the case wide open."

Van Pelt added, "Abbott is a hard-nosed SOB."

"Yeah. I'm not joining for his social charm."

"Hey," Lisbon said, "I'm proud of you. The FBI is getting one hell of an agent. And it speaks to Abbott's smarts that he sponsored you."

Cho shrugged and looked away.

Lisbon changed the subject. "Did you see the Karen Cross special on the Blake Association? It aired nationally."

Rigsby and Van Pelt exchanged glances. "We saw it. It was pretty thorough. Everyone in the US should be shocked at just how far and deep the corruption went."

Cho added, "I heard about it. Some instructors and trainees congratulated me on our unit breaking the case."

"Any reaction by the FBI?" asked Lisbon.

"It was factual. Not much they could say. Cross gave Abbott his due on cleaning it up once the FBI got involved."

"There are supposed to be two or three follow-up specials. Wonder what more there is to cover," Lisbon said, getting up from the couch. She excused herself and headed down the hall to the washroom.

Once Lisbon was out of earshot, Van Pelt hissed, "Cho! Did you get a letter from him, too?"

After a moment, "Yeah. Why?"

Rigsby broke in. "We're feeding Cross background info. Don't know if his plan will work, but it's worth a try. Are you doing anything?"

Looking decidedly dour, Cho answered, "I have limited running room. I'm still government. About all I can do–all I'm _willing_ to do–is talk up the facts inside the FBI. Our CBI record. What Jane contributed. Breaking the Blake Association case and ID'ing Red John."

"That's a big help. Letting the FBI know what Jane can do is terrific," breathed Van Pelt. They broke it off as Lisbon returned.

"Who's ready for dessert?" Lisbon asked brightly.


	16. Chpt 16-Jan'15-Emerged from Nightmare

**South America, one year and five months since Red John**

January, 2015

Dear Lisbon,

Welcome to 2015, a whole new year of limitless possibilities. I wish you health and happiness through the year. I'm feeling fine, though I am increasingly tired of being alone.

As promised, Franklin took me to see the jellyfish at night. It was just as spectacular as I recalled from last year. Lisbon, some day I _have _to find a way for you to share this. If the "fireworks" in the nighttime water weren't thrilling enough, the fireworks in the city's night sky provided a second full measure of beauty. In this land of eternal summer, of course it makes sense that fireworks would usher in the new year. I just hadn't thought about it until I found myself enjoying the display.

Yes, I traveled to the city again. I am bored. I know–hard to imagine I'd get bored in a remote village that could be straight out of life a hundred years ago. I am. I spent a week visiting museums, camping out at the library computer for the internet, and enjoying ethnic cuisines. Some ad hoc performing earned money to take back. I even found a carnival to attend. Doing typical carny stunts with my fractured Spanish was hilarious. Happy to find my rusty skills are still good enough to amuse the marks. (And, no, I did not take advantage of anyone.)

At the library I used the internet to check out US news. So the Blake Association is still making headlines? I read summaries of Karen Cross's TV special. I'll give Abbott his due: It sounds like he's done a good job cleaning up the mess. I wonder if he really got them all. Did they all have the tattoo? And what about Red John's friends who weren't BA? How was Abbott able to ID them? Although the FBI's been on the case nearly a year-and-a-half, I would be very surprised if some didn't slip through the cracks. I'd love to have a hand in figuring it out.

You'd be proud of me. Despite boredom and roaming the big city, I managed to restrain myself and stay out of trouble. (I have _some_ sense of self-preservation, after all. I really need to avoid attracting any sort of official attention. It would be a bit inconvenient if I got myself kicked out of the country.) I find myself restless. I think I have my answer about striving. Perhaps being laid back-_not striving-_is healthy. But I can't do it. At least not forever. It will be interesting to see if some of my plans come together over the next several months.

When I'm around the village, the kids still get me to do sleight-of-hand tricks. I still make them show me what they've learned. I discovered the school badly needs books. I was able to cover the cost from what I made in the city. Worthwhile striving.

Away from the city lights, the stars seem especially brilliant now that the humidity is down. They cast enough light to follow the path out of the village. And it's amazing to think about what those points of light really are. We stand, feet planted on the Earth with our hair brushing infinity. Our very bodies are made up of the material of stars. All the heavier elements are produced in the course of a star's evolution. Wish I could keep up with developments in astronomy.

Wish I could keep up with developments with Theresa Lisbon. Miss you.

Your friend and partner

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, January 2015**

Lisbon had the statistics to prove it! Her holiday traffic safety campaign prevented several crashes and some fatalities. That, a visit during Christmastime from all but one of her old CBI team members, and a growing sense of comfort with the Cannon River community got 2015 off to an admirable start.

It was the second week of January. Temperatures were falling all day and fat, fluffy snowflakes were beginning to accumulate on the grass when she left work. She'd just gotten home when a UPS truck pulled up behind her parked car. The black woman smiled, handed her a small box, and left immediately. It took a second for Lisbon to realize the UPS driver was Samantha– Jane's carny friend Sam. She caught her eye and waved at the last moment. Lisbon unlocked her door and stamped her feet free of snow. Then she eagerly opened the small package with scissors. _A snow globe? _She shook it only to realize the display was of jellyfish-translucent blue, yellow, green or red-fluorescing in a dark liquid. An airmail envelope folded in half was tucked into the bottom of the box.

Lisbon made dinner, envelope safely up off the counter. She couldn't resist shaking the globe several times while preparing her food. Dinner over, wine glass and envelope in hand, she lit the fireplace and curled up on the couch under a throw.

_Happy New Year, Jane. You _sound_ fine. Happy, light. Like you did in your first few years at CBI, only without the darkness of revenge underneath._

_ I'd love to see the jellyfish. If you stay down there, maybe I could visit you some day. On the other hand, it wouldn't be great for a police chief to be consorting–would I be "consorting"? hmm-with a wanted fugitive. I wouldn't put it past Abbott to nail me on that. _She scratched her head. _Worry about that when the time comes._

_ You're sounding like the old Jane I knew. I'm happy for you. I'd love to see you doing carny stunts in Spanish. Never thought you would take advantage of anyone. You usually didn't unless they were a pompous VIP or someone sure to create mountains of paperwork for me. I'm glad to hear you want things enough to bother with "striving" again. A passive, subdued Jane isn't anyone I recognize. I do want to hear more about this sense of self-preservation. When did that happen? And what plans?_

_ I miss you, too Jane. You sound like yourself again. Sure, we have lots to work out were we ever to get together, but I'm glad you've dropped the confessional. We need to put that behind us and enjoy whatever the future holds. How remarkable. I only know you from the worst ten years of your life. I can't wait to know you now that you've emerged from the nightmare._

Lisbon added the letter to the box and turned in for the night. She felt happier and more optimistic for Jane than she had in years. She was beginning to appreciate how deeply the hunt for a serial killer had marked them all.

~.~.~.~

**California, January 2015**

"This is Karen Cross with the second segment of our Blake Association expose. In the first segment I detailed corruption involving 3,400 people in law enforcement spread over 23 states. The corrupt network was broken wide open by Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon's Serious Crimes Unit of the California Bureau of Investigation. Senior Agent Lisbon and her team exposed this corrupt network despite threats and interference from the head of the CBI, Gale Bertram. Gale Bertram was, himself, a criminal Blake Association member.

"As horrifying as the Blake Association network was, there is an even deeper evil and depravity associated with the case. The Blake Association was headed by none other than the notorious California serial killer, Red John. During the 12-years he terrorized California, Red John personally killed over 30 people–almost all women, late at night, in their homes. Many more murders are attributed to the so-called friends of Red John.

"Agent Lisbon's team had a personal stake in ending Red John's reign of terror. Red John killed the wife and young daughter of CBI Consultant Patrick Jane. Red John's murders were committed in a singular style: He woke the victim first, so he could enjoy her fear and hear her beg for mercy. He bound her hands and feet. Then he cut her open and watched her bleed to death in agony. Red John did this to the wife and young daughter of Patrick Jane..."


	17. Chpt 17-Feb'15-A Little Scattered

**South America, one year and six months since Red John**

February, 2015

Dear Lisbon,

Another month, another 28 days to see what mischief I can make. Doing well. Hoping you're feeling fine, too. Somehow I'll endure another month of good weather and beautiful scenery.

I went back to the city again. The internet is a wonderful thing. Distance is no longer a barrier to much of anything. I may even grow to love technology (don't tell our redheaded computer whiz or she'll never let me talk her into doing my computer scut work again). If you think about it, all technology exists to mitigate incompetence. Can't drive stick? There are automatic gearshifts. Never overcame that math phobia? Your calculator saves the day! Can't remember phone numbers? Your smart phone is smarter than you. Anyhow, I'm digressing from my digression. Yes, I'm spending time in the city again, mainly to use the internet. The game's afoot.

Franklin is back to working normal hours. The money his father earned from making my new bed is helping. Speaking of helping, my new bed is definitely helping my back, too, thank you for asking. I'm going to have to think about whether there's any way I can help Franklin. It's not exactly like I need to send him to college. His talents lie more in politics or maybe business. Fun to contemplate in my idle moments.

For some reason I was thinking of the time you drove me to Malibu to get my memory back after almost drowning. I think it was because that was such a disconnect with my life. I was outside looking in at what had become a routine. I guess I feel a little like that now. Events certainly threw a cat among the pigeons 18 months ago.

Do you remember when we talked afterward? When we first met you showed me how my skills, talents could be used differently from my past. You said I could have been a psychiatrist–a "great" psychiatrist if I remember precisely. I was lying around thinking about that. Once I recovered enough to live outside my own personal nightmare, Sophie and I had some interesting conversations. I'd picked up enough to be conversant with a lot of her formal education in psychology and psychiatry. Of course, I had only a smattering of knowledge about the medical biochemistry. But I was familiar with the major theories about personality and personality disorders. I definitely knew about psychotropic drugs. Too bad I used that knowledge to scam people. Sophie did me a lot of good. I could have put my talents to better use. Maybe next lifetime.

You know, I'm surprised anyone ever ends up in the right line of work. Growing up, I knew little beyond the carny world. How do kids ever find their way? Fireman, cop, teacher? That's all they know so that's all they can envision when adults ask the really ridiculous question of what they want to be when they grow up. That reminds me of the progress in the artificial intelligence field. Way back when, the field approached intelligence on a brute-force basis of trying to program everything a robot would need to operate independently. No longer. Now the field aims at enabling the computer to learn from trial and error. Ta-da! And that is how people end up with a reasonably good fit between talents and occupation. Exhibit A? Me.

Sorry, Lisbon. I'm a little scattered today. I miss you. (I certainly miss your steadying influence.) Given half a chance, I'll remedy that yet. Fondly,

Your friend, admirer, and pain in the a** extraordinaire

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, February 2015**

Lisbon settled down on her couch, wine glass, heart-shaped box of chocolates, and letter from Jane in hand. The Valentine's Day candy with Jane's letter enclosed within the wrapper was delivered by none other than Sam, Jane's carny friend.

She read the first two paragraphs, leaned back, grinned and shook her head. _Jane! What _are_ you on, anyhow? Discover some South American plant form of speed? I haven't seen you like this since you were twitting Bosco, solving the case while in County jail and then escaping just to rub his nose in it_

_ If Franklin is half as good as you say, he'll do just fine all by himself. Help him out and he'll be running the town in a few years. Just what they need–your alter-ego. Seriously, what could you do to help him in that little village?_

She read on and sighed, thinking about how hard it had been when Jane lost his memory. He was a stranger without his memory, despite so much shared history. Her thoughts drifted to the years back at the CBI. _I still stand by that, Jane. You _could_ have been an incredible psychiatrist. In doing your psychic con, I sometimes wonder what the balance was between helping people versus ripoff scam. I know you hurt some clients. Carol Gentry committed suicide. Maybe your readings contributed to that. Jill Lamont divorced her husband Paul Krager–who was, after all, sleeping around on her. But it wasn't all bad. In fact, I bet most of it was good. I know you. You took their money, sure, but you couldn't have done it if you hurt people._

_ You told me you liked doing readings as the Boy Wonder to make people feel good. Your exploitative father twisted that into callousness and greed. Psychiatrists make a good living doing what they do. No, I'm not about to endorse the psychic con game, but you _were_ damn good at it. I saw how needy, how draining Beth Flint was when we investigated the kidnapping of her son Connor. God, Jane. The emotional support she demanded was almost parasitic. Then you faked that psychic reading to get her stepson to lead us to the boy. You had me half-convinced you had some kind of psychic episode, and I don't even believe in that crap._

_Pure Jane. Psychiatry to career planning to artificial intelligence. "Scattered," indeed! You're certainly wound up. Most of the times I've seen you like this you have some major con in the works. What the hell are you up to in a sleepy village in South America?_

_ Yeah. Friend. Admirer. And pain in the ass extraordinaire. Couldn't have said it better myself. I want you back in my life!_

_~.~.~.~_

**Los Angeles, California, February 2015**

David Jenkins

Venezuela/Caracas/PublicLibrary#

Re: Consultant Extraordinaire

David–

Haven't been in touch since our mutual friend Bob's unfortunate accident. Have an offer you can't refuse: Free consulting for a little word of mouth. Send me the files on a half-dozen of your toughest cold cases. I'll look them over. I'll send you any ideas I come up with. If any of my ideas pan out, you talk up what I can do and what I did in the past ten years to your bosses. If they mention it to their FBI colleagues, I would be most appreciative. That's all.

I imagine you're aware of my delicate situation. Respond within 5 minutes. Otherwise, I'll contact you at my convenience.

Pleasure doing business with you. Enjoy your souchong!

~.~.~.~

**New Scotland Yard/Metropolitan Police Service, London, February 2015**

February, 2015

Dear Inspector Slocombe,

Haven't been in touch since the unfortunate matter of Cleopatra's missing ring. However, I have a favor to ask and a favor to offer. Free consulting for a little word of mouth. Send me the files on a half-dozen of your toughest, cold cases. I'll look them over. I'll send you any ideas I come up with. If any of my ideas pan out, you talk up what I can do and what I did in the past ten years to your bosses. Oh, and if they mention it to the US FBI, I would be most appreciative.

You may be aware of my delicate legal situation. Respond within 5 minutes. Otherwise, I'll contact you at my convenience.

Pleasure doing business with you. Would that I could join you for a cup of souchong!

~.~.~.~

**California, February 2015**

"This is Karen Cross with our third electrifying segment of our expose of the Blake  
Association and the Red John serial killer cases. Our first segment detailed the vast corrupt law-  
enforcement network stretching over 23 states. The second segment covered the shocking  
connection to the Red John serial killer, who was also head of the Blake Association. This  
segment delves into the incredible, courageous work of Senior Agent Lisbon and her team, Agents  
Kimball Cho, Wayne Rigsby, and Grace Van Pelt, and also the tragic yet brilliant CBI consultant  
Patrick Jane. These five fine government servants broke the Blake Association and Red John  
cases wide open, ending a pernicious blight on the citizens of California and 22 other states."

"Solving these cases goes back over ten years, when Agent Lisbon's team was assigned  
the case of the notorious Red John serial killer. Despite this crack team's best efforts in pursuing  
lead after lead, it took a decade of single-minded, dedicated work to finally run this killer, this  
animal, to the ground. In fact, Consultant Patrick Jane spent six months under cover in a  
dangerous operation to lure the serial killer out of hiding, using himself as bait. He then spent  
nearly a year sifting through over 2,000 possible suspects to winnow it down to seven likely Red  
John suspects, uncovering the Blake Association in the process..."


	18. Chpt 18-Mar'15-Something Is Up

**South America, one year and seven months since Red John**

March, 2015

Dear Lisbon,

Hope you are well and happy. I am fine, although a little short on sleep of late. Just working hard to finish something I need to get done the sooner the better.

The end of March will mark the last of the of the cooler, dryer winter season. Now the weather quickly catapults into hot and rainy. Haven't done much swimming of late because of time. With the changing season I'll have to make time or just resign myself to melting into an abject puddle of misery here in my un‑air‑conditioned little apartment. Have I mentioned I hate hot, humid weather?

More time in the city at the library. Pretty soon they'll assign me my own computer cubicle and start charging me rent. I've still managed to stay off the radar. So far, so good.

I've missed you rather keenly of late. You, the team, the work. While surfing the web I noticed more Karen Cross specials. Interesting. She's now delineated the magnitude of the Blake Association corruption, detailed the horrors of the Red John case, and provided a thorough account of how the Red John and Blake Association cases were cracked. Having no idea of your current circumstances, I can only hope the free publicity works to your advantage. That was among the most aggravating aspects of the FBI's BA take-down: Treating your personal record and your team's accomplishments as though they were nothing. With due respect, being a good cop isn't just about being hard-nosed. It's also about differentiating the good from the bad. Abbott has the former in spades but seems a bit weak on the latter. What goes around comes around.

Haven't seen much in the news about Visualize. Wonder if anything ever surfaced. Bret Stiles was supposedly killed in the Malibu explosion, but I always wonder about him. If one person escaped from the main explosion, maybe others did as well. Hell, it could even burnish his claim to godhood–rising from the dead and all. I keep feeling there are Visualize connections to BA and RJ yet to be uncovered.

Wonder what California's done about a new state investigative bureau by now. It can't do without one forever. Would that provide opportunities for you and the team? If life were fair (it isn't), it should. Guess I'll keep wondering for now.

Miss you.

Just me

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, March 2015**

A bouquet of flowers was delivered to Lisbon's office, complete with vase. That was fortunate because Lisbon was pretty sure the PD had none in stock. She moved the cowrie shell and baseball over to make room, a smile curving her lips as she touched those two favorite keepsakes. After a dozen months' experience, Lisbon quickly found Jane's letter in the bottom of the vase before she filled it with water. It had been hidden by the opaque glass.

Work dragged. As usual. This was the first job Lisbon ever had where catching up with her professional reading was a realistic goal. Quitting time at last, she set aside the article about the Cuban fingerprint switch scam. She glanced at the bouquet, then decided to leave it. She spent more waking hours at work than at home and the flowers were a cheering reminder of Jane. Besides, she had his letter for company this evening. She gathered coat and purse and left.

Evening. Lisbon settled down with letter and wine and began to read.

She frowned, a bit uneasy after reading just the first paragraph. _Short on sleep? Not nightmares again, I hope. "Working hard to finish something"? "The sooner the better"? A deadline? What would you have to work on in that village?_ Lisbon knew Jane's notion of short on sleep probably meant all-nighters. But now, after Red John, she couldn't think of any reason for him to be pulling all nighters. It sounded intentional, too. Ten years of working closely with her very troubled friend had left her super-sensitive to Jane's habits and moods.

Lisbon skimmed the rest of the letter. _Mostly about the CBI days. What's up? He's doing a lousy job if he's trying to distance himself from the CBI mess and just be a beach bum. This whole letter is distracted and all about work._ She got up, retrieved Jane's last letter from the stationery box, and re-read it. _His February letter was exuberant, damn near manic. He's not becoming bi‑polar, is he?_

She sat back and sipped her wine. _Okay. Reality check. For ten years this man focused obsessively on the serial killer who murdered his family and he still managed to keep a grip on reality. After all that I can't believe Jane would become unhinged now when, if anything, there's no reason, no stress. Time for theory B. Something is up. Jane has something in the works. I don't know what, but there's every sign he's up to his ears in some plan. And he's deliberately vague, so he doesn't _want_ me to know. A while back he said he has enough money to live on, so I doubt it's illegal–and he doesn't care about money anymore, anyhow. So what? The only constant in a year-and-a-half of letters is missing me, wanting to get back in contact somehow._

_ Hmm. Jane's pretty much put the past behind him since December. He's the happiest and healthiest he's been since I met him. Maybe he's working on some way to return. I know he could just sneak in. The fact that he hasn't done so for 19 months tells me that's not how he wants to do it. Heads up, Teresa. Jane's got something cooking. I'll just have to wait and see how it unfolds. Good luck, Jane. Hope it works._

Lisbon turned in for the night, more than a little unsettled herself. The possibility of Jane physically returning to the States was completely different from the abstraction of letters and fond memories.

~.~.~.~

**Sacramento, California, March 2015**

"Wayne, I got into the white hat seminar!"

"That's great! I thought you already did the white hat thing for three months a few years ago."

"You're never really done. Hackers keep coming up with creative new approaches. I want to keep up. Besides, this could help me help Jane."

"How? What's it got to do with Jane?"

"I want to find out some personal information about the FBI top brass."

"What the hell? You're not planning on blackmailing them, are you? Or helping Jane blackmail them?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I want the info and this is the only legal way I can hack it without breaking any laws. I'm allowed to choose my own target."

"Are you sure? I'd hate for Maddie to have to visit you behind bars."

"I know what I'm doing. Homeland and the FBI sponsor these seminars. If we succeed in hacking supposedly secure systems, it helps them identify system weaknesses and shore up their security. I could even get a reward."

"Okay, Grace. Your call."

~.~.~.~

"Annie! Annabeth Lisbon," Van Pelt called to Teresa Lisbon's niece when she saw her in the mall. Tommy and Annabeth Lisbon had moved to Sacramento a few years before the CBI was disbanded. Annabeth was seventeen, brilliant, and a handful. As the youngest member of Lisbon's CBI team, Van Pelt had become friends with the teen and a mentor.

Annabeth pretended she didn't see her. Van Pelt hurried and caught up, reached out and grabbed her arm.

"Why are you snubbing me?"

"Can't you guess?"

"If I knew I wouldn't be asking. Come on. Let's sit down in the food court and you tell me what's going on."

They chose a table. Van Pelt bought them both lunch that was vaguely Asian cuisine.

"Okay, spill it."

"My aunt says you and Wayne are telling the Karen Cross TV woman about the CBI."

"Yeah. Teresa knows about it and is okay with it. So?"

"You're making it sound like Patrick Jane did everything. I know he's good, but you're being unfair to my aunt."

Van Pelt sat back. "You're not wrong, but you don't know the whole story."

"Jane is out of the US, right?"

"Yeah."

"So what's to know?"

Van Pelt sighed and leaned back, looking Annabeth up and down. "You know why he's outside the US, right?"

"Sure. The FBI thinks he killed that Red John murderer. Aunt Teresa won't talk about it, though."

"Well, it's pretty tough on her. She and Jane were close–"

"–yeah, they should have gotten together."

"Maybe. So long as criminal charges are pending against Jane, he doesn't want to come back."

"So that's why Aunt Terersa is upset about this. He _can't_ come back?"

"Exactly. Not without risking arrest, a trial, and prison time if convicted."

Now it was Annabeth's turn to sit back and think. She looked at Van Pelt with a sudden gleam. "He could come back if the FBI dropped the charges, right?"

"Van Pelt frowned. "Right."

"Got it! You're trying to get the FBI to want him to work for them so they'll drop the charges."

Startled, Van Pelt, said nothing.

"That is it, isn't it?! Neat."

"You are one sharp brat, Annabeth."

She gave Van Pelt a cheeky smile. "Not so hard to figure out. After all, Aunt Teresa had to do tons of paperwork because of all the trouble Jane caused. But he was so good at solving cases it was worth it."

"Annabeth–"

_ "-Anna_, please."

"Anna, you can't tell anyone about this. Especially your aunt. It's a long shot at best and it would be just one more big letdown if Teresa got her hopes up only for it not to work."

"Okay. But can I help somehow? I really like him. I think they'd be great together."

Van Pelt said slowly, "Maybe you can. What do you know about internet fan sites?"

"They're okay. Ohmygosh! You're gonna do a fan site for my aunt and Patrick Jane?"

"I don't know yet. I have to see if the FBI top brass has any teenage daughters who might just pester their dads to death about Patrick Jane."

"You know, for an old –er person, you're pretty cool. When will you know about whether you'll do a website?"

"As soon as I finish a seminar in a few weeks. Are you going to be able to keep your mouth shut about all this?" Annabeth nodded. "Tell no one. Not your dad. Not your aunt. Not your friends. This will only work if it appears to be spontaneous. And I especially don't want to get your aunt's hopes up." Van Pelt muttered, "She'd probably pull the plug anyhow..."

Three weeks later Van Pelt had her information and her decision. Several FBI upper executives had daughters, nieces, or granddaughters in the age range of 10-16. Van Pelt could use Annabeth as a plausible front for the website. Plus, Annabeth was far closer to the age range of interest. Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane were about to get nationwide buzz.

~.~.~.~

**California, March 2015**

"Karen Cross here again, presenting the amazing fourth and final segment of our series. After covering the Blake Association, Red John serial killer, and ten year investigation that broke these cases wide open, this segment provides an intensive look into the most successful investigative unit in CBI history. Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon's Special Crimes Unit. Over the ten years before the CBI was disbanded, this outstanding unit solved every–yes EVERY–case it was ever assigned. Including the Red John case. Especially the Red John case. This unit was handed the hardest cases: Homicides, kidnappings, biological weapon theft, black market sales of human organs, and nuclear material black market sales. Over the ten years, it solved every one of almost one-thousand cases..."

~.~.~.~

**Quantico, Virginia, March 2105**

"Here's the DVD of Patrick Jane's speech at the CBI retreat several years ago. He explains his approach to crime investigation. He's sort of a...super profiler."

"Thank you Agent Cho. I just saw a TV news special about Agent Lisbon's unit at the California Bureau of Investigation. That was your unit, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"TV specials tend to be long on hype and short on fact. Is it true your unit closed every case over a ten year period?"

"Yes sir."

"How did they hold up in court?

"Best conviction record in the CBI."

"And how about the consultant, Jane is it? Was he important to that record?"

"He was critical. We had an excellent team, but Jane is...unique."

"I need to take a look at this DVD. Would you mind if I copy it and distribute it within the FBI if it seems relevant? It isn't copyrighted, is it?"

"No, sir. Feel free to distribute it as needed."

"Thank you. That will be all for now."


	19. Chpt 19-Apr'15-Karen Cross & JisbonLane

**California, April 2015**

"Karen Cross here with follow-up interviews to our award winning four part series on the Blake Association, Red John, and the CBI team that solved these cases–Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon's Special Crimes Unit. Our specials generated tremendous viewer interest in what happened to the members of Agent Lisbon's team since the California Bureau of Investigation was disbanded. Two former members of her team are here to update us. Former agents Wayne Rigsby and Grace Van Pelt. Welcome. Now, tell us exactly what happened since the CBI was disbanded."

"Governor Smith determined the CBI would never regain the trust of the California citizens once the crimes of CBI Director Gale Bertram came to light. The Governor requested help from the FBI. Supervising Agent Dennis Abbott of the Austin, Texas FBI office was sent to break up the Blake Association network. The whole CBI was disbanded, our team along with it," Rigsby started off.

"Even though it was your team that exposed the corrupt Blake Association?"

"Yes."

"And even though your team identified Sheriff Thomas McAllister as the infamous Red John."

"Yes."

"Exactly what happened?"

"Under a Federal court order, Dennis Abbott and his team came in and literally closed down the CBI building. All employees were immediately relieved of their duties. All employees were investigated for possible involvement with the Blake Association or Red John," replied Van Pelt.

"And what was the result for your team?"

"Everyone on our team was cleared of any involvement with either the Blake Association or Red John after two months of investigation by Supervising Agent Abbott," replied Rigsby.

"A few days before all this, your consultant, Patrick Jane, had identified CBI Director Gale Bertram as Red John in a press interview. But that turned out to be incorrect?"

"Yes, that's right, Karen. Gale Bertram had the three-red dot tattoo on his shoulder, which initially led us to believe he was Red John. It took a few more days to determine that the three dots indicated Blake Association membership. Bertram was a Blake Association member and Red John supporter, but he was not Red John."

"Who finally was identified as Red John?"

"Sheriff Thomas McAllister of Napa Valley County," responded Van Pelt.

"Why was it so hard to determine who was Red John?"

"The Blake Association worked on a 'need to know' basis. Each member knew only a few other members. They had a code phrase to identify themselves and assignments–"

"–you mean orders to commit crimes?"

"Yes, orders to commit crimes were done by phone after giving the code phrase. So each member only knew the identities of a few other members. McAllister had built his organization over the course of a decade. Not even Bertram knew McAllister was Red John," answered Rigsby.

"How was McAllister definitively ID'd?"

"McAllister was believed to have died in an explosion during a meeting of five Red John suspects on August 8, 2013. Forensic evidence supposedly identified him. That proved to be wrong. McAllister showed up at the Alexandria Cemetery, very much alive, on August 11, 2013. Bertram, and another Red John member, Robert Cordero, died of gunshot wounds in a small chapel on the grounds. McAllister died of a gunshot wound and strangulation in a nearby park."

"How could McAllister be positively ID'd using DNA evidence as dead in an explosion on August 8, only to turn up later on August 11?"

"That's one of the most troubling aspects of the Blake Association network. The Blake Association included CBI agents, police officers, California FBI agents, forensic technicians, medical examiners, judges, and even a few district attorneys and assistant DA's. It was impossible to know whether evidence was tampered with. Obviously, the forensic evidence confirming McAllister's death by explosion was incorrect, faked. As I understand it, McAllister was definitively ID'd as Red John from physical evidence found at his house after his death. Agent Abbott would be able to speak to that."

"How did McAllister, Bertram and Cordero die on August 11th?"

"I am not able to answer that question. By August 11, the CBI was disbanded and our team had no involvement in the investigation of those deaths. You would have to speak to Agent Abbott of the FBI," replied Rigsby.

"We have Agent Abbott with us here tonight and I will ask him about that. Now, before we wrap up this interview, can you tell us what each member of Agent Lisbon's former team is now doing?"

"Teresa Lisbon is police chief in Cannon River, Washington. Kimball Cho has just finished training and is now an FBI agent with the Austin, Texas FBI office. Ms. Van Pelt and I founded a detective agency together, based in Sacramento. I do not know what our former consultant, Patrick Jane is doing."

"Why did none of your team join the new California investigative bureau?"

"The involvement of former CBI Director Gale Bertram in the Blake Association tarnished the reputation of anyone who ever worked for the CBI. Even though we cracked the Blake Association and Red John cases, our work with the CBI made it unlikely they would want us. Further, the new bureau was not formed for over six months after the CBI was disbanded. We had to get on with our lives and earn a living."

"Thank you. After this brief commercial break, we will return for an interview with Supervising Agent Dennis Abbott, of the Austin, Texas FBI office. That office was assigned to clean up the Blake Association network."

~.~.~.~

... "To finish up, Agent Abbott, what happened on August 11 when Thomas McAllister, Gale Bertram, and Robert Cordero were killed?"

"I'm sorry. That investigation remains open, so I cannot speak to the events."

"Can you confirm that Bertram was killed with Robert Cordero's gun?'

"Yes, I can confirm that."

"And McAllister and Cordero were shot with the gun found in McAllister's hand?"

"Yes."

"But McAllister didn't die of that gunshot wound, did he?"

"No, he was strangled to death."

"Have charges been filed against anyone for the deaths of McAllister and Cordero?"

"Yes."

"And they are filed against–?"

"Patrick Jane, former CBI consultant."

"What is the current status of Mr. Jane?"

"He is a wanted fugitive."

"The FBI does not have him in custody?"

"No. He disappeared on August 11 and has not been seen since."

"Thank you Supervising Agent Abbott."

"That concludes the follow-up interviews to our four-part series on the Blake Association and Red John cases, and Agent Teresa Lisbon's Serious Crimes Unit that cracked them. We will keep you updated as more information comes to light."

~.~.~.~

**South America, one year and eight months since Red John**

April, 2015

Dear Lisbon,

How are you? Happy and healthy, I hope. I'm doing pretty well, considering. My hiking took me up a rocky cliff. Unfortunately, I lost my footing and went back down the hard way. Bruises and a few cuts, nothing serious. Next time I'll watch my step. At least the view was spectacular.

I saw the video on the internet of the Karen Cross interviews. Abbott hasn't eased off any, I see. Surprising he thinks he has enough evidence to file charges with respect to McAllister. I'm sorry the team is shut out of the new California investigative bureau. Stupid and unfair. I'd say "political" but then I'd be repeating myself. It sounds like everyone has landed on their feet. Washington, huh? Quite a change. An acceptable one, I hope.

The biggest downside I see is the breakup of your team. No help for it I suppose. A position with the FBI makes sense. Best fit of the bunch. Must be even more bureaucratic than the CBI, though. A private detective agency could work well for the other two. Their skills are complementary. I am most surprised at your ending up in Cannon River, Washington. From what little there is on the internet, it sounds _very_ quiet. Too quiet? If you've found a home and someone to be at your side, I am happy for you. If not, I would like to occupy that place some day.

I wrapped up the project I was working on last time I wrote. Now I have to see what comes of it. Maybe nothing. Maybe a break. I know, I'm being mysterious. Some day I'll tell you, perhaps if we see each other again.

Enough of all that. The beach and sky are a balm to the spirit. I'm back to swimming daily to cool off from the heat and humidity. (I had to take a break for a few days after my tumble till the cuts healed. Sharks sometimes come near shore and it's never wise to attract them with blood in the water.) I discovered a new area of rock formations that are even more interesting, more beautiful. Wish my talents ran toward fine art. Maybe some day.

Going to the city more frequently has eased the boredom. But I'm still a stranger in a strange land–not part of the culture or community. Not part of a team. Though I never realized I needed them, after my last ten years I miss my friends.

I miss having a connection to you most acutely of all. You're constantly in my thoughts, always in my heart. Take care.

Your friend and partner

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, April 2015**

"John, thanks for making time for me to meet with you on short notice."

"My pleasure, Chief. What can I do for you?"

"As mayor, you handle the day to day management of my contract as police chief. I'm here to request an exception to a clause in my contract."

"Which is?"

"There's been a lot of publicity about the Blake Association and the California Bureau of Investigation."

"Yeah, I saw a couple of those specials by Karen Cross."

"I would like to be permitted to be interviewed by Cross on her show."

"Why? Why now?"

"The FBI is hanging a former member of my team out to dry. I'd like to present the other side of the story."

"Patrick Jane?"

She nodded, "Yes."

"I saw the latest interview with Abbott. Seems to me he simply stated the facts. Jane has been charged with murder and has disappeared. What's the issue?

"The issue is context. Jane was key in exposing the Blake Association network and identifying Red John. When Jane fled there were literally thousands of criminals with every reason to find and kill him. His wife and daughter were murdered by Red John. Since the FBI has chosen to try the case in the press by appearing on the show, I would like to appear as well."

"I'll need to check with the city council on this . At the very least, you would need to appear as a private citizen, or former CBI agent. Not in your capacity as police chief. No uniform. No being addressed as 'police chief.'"

"No problem. When can you put it before the city council?"

"There's a meeting tomorrow evening."

"And what will _you_ recommend?"

"I'll support you. Chief–Teresa,- you've done a helluva job since you've been here. I realize it isn't glamourous work compared to your former position. But your safety campaigns have saved lives. Crime is lower than when you started. Closure rates are up. And the whole PD is a lot more professional and competent than it used to be. You've delivered everything you were hired for."

"Thank you."

"I'll call as soon as I'm out of tomorrow's meeting. Around eight p.m."

"Look forward to hearing the decision."

~.~.~.~

**Sacramento, California, April 2015**

Van Pelt walked into their kitchen, arms full of groceries. Rushed as usual, she was late starting dinner. There was never enough time juggling motherhood and full time demanding work as partner in their detective agency. _Feast or famine,_ she mused. _Working for yourself, it's either worrying about getting the next job, the next client. Or, it's struggling to handle all the work. The TV interview was the best possible exposure we could have. But there's more work than we can handle. _As she put away groceries she didn't notice Rigsby come into the kitchen until she turned suddenly and bumped into him_._

_ "_Hi, Babe. Maddie sleeping?"

"Yeah."

She stopped and looked at him hard. _Something's wrong._ "Baby okay?!"

"Yeah."

"You look like hell. What's wrong?"

"This," he said in a strangled voice, shoving a manilla folder her way. A sheaf of beefcake photos of Patrick Jane spilled out onto the counter. "I found them on your desk when I was looking for some invoices." The photos were from Jane's days as a psychic, from candid CBI office photos, from time at the beach or pool when they were out of town on cases. They were all carefully cropped, some air-brushed to romance-novel levels of idealized male handsomeness. They made her look guilty as hell to her husband.

Van Pelt took a deep breath, a flush of pink creeping up her throat to cover her face. "Oh, Lord. Wayne, it's not what you think!"

"What am I supposed to think?!" His expression spoke of anger, betrayal and loss.

Van Pelt took his hand and the folder and led him to the kitchen table. She sat down and encouraged him to do the same. "Wayne, you're gonna kill me but not for what you're thinking."

"Waiting."

"I have no–NO–interest in Jane that way–"

"–These photos suggest otherwise."

"Please, just let me get it out. Remember how I wanted to get personal information on the FBI brass through that white hat seminar?"

"Uh-huh."

"I wanted to know if they had daughters, nieces, granddaughters in the 10-to-16 age range."

"What does that have–"

"I put up a fan site for Annabeth to create buzz for Jane and Lisbon."

"What?!"

"Here, I'll show you." Van Pelt got up, got another folder from her desk drawer, and returned. "These are the photos for Lisbon."

Rigsby took a look at the equally suggestive, equally idealized pictures of his former boss. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Wayne, you have no idea how much influence a girl can have over her father at that age. My dad was a hard-nosed football coach. And I could twist him around my little finger whenever I wanted. The fan site is a chance to create favorable buzz and get the attention of the FBI brass through the back door, in a way they aren't expecting. I–-Annabeth and I have put together a whole positive, tragic take on Jane and Lisbon that's like catnip to girls in that age range."

"The Boss will _kill_ you when she finds out."

Van Pelt took a deep breath. "Maybe not. First of all, I didn't use their real names. It's 'Patrick Lane' and 'Teresa Jisbon.' Second, the photos are air brushed. They kinda look like them, but it's so idealized it's almost like Barbie and Ken dolls. I didn't think there was much harm in trying."

Rigsby put his head in his hands. "She's still gonna kill you. Aren't there protections against using someone's personal life commercially, or something?"

"Different names. Doctored photos. The story is close, but enough details are changed that it would squeak by legally, I think. On the other hand, anyone who knows the story will recognize them. I laid it out the story as positively as possible. The hundred-percent close rate over ten years. The tragic personal history. The close–but strictly G-rated–relationship between Jane–sorry, _Lane _and Jisbon. If Jane gets back to the US and charges are dropped, I'll just take down the website."

"And what are we going to tell the Boss when someone asks her about it?"

'Uh, I say punt. Let's deal with it when it comes up. _If_ it ever comes up. And let's hope it works."

"Aren't you getting Annabeth in trouble with Tommy and Teresa?"

"I tell you, Babe, that girl can take care of herself. She's almost as sharp and tricky as Jane! I say let it ride."

He took one last look at the photos before he shoved them back into the folders. "Okay. I guess it's a little late to try to undo what's already out there."

~.~.~.~

**Austin, Texas, April 2015**

Abbott rested his forehead in his hand, elbow propped on the desk. _Now I get a goddam email requesting a memo defending charging Jane with McAllister's murder. This is turning into a bigger can of worms by the minute. Those Karen Cross interviews stirred up the whole mess again._

He knew in his bones Jane killed McAllister. If he had any doubt, it vanished when Jane vanished. Innocent men don't run from the law. _Proving it_, however, was another matter. Abbott knew perfectly well that all he had was circumstantial evidence. A case could be made. A plausible case. But, _beyond a reasonable doubt? For a murder case, possibly a death penalty case? Not even close._

Abbott reviewed what he had to work with. _Jane had a decade long history of hunting Red John. He hadn't been shy about his intention of killing Red John, either. Jane was somehow involved in what went down between Bertram, Cordero and McAllister. Jane's prints were all over that chapel. And Jane's prints were on Lisbon's gun–which, however, hadn't been fired, hadn't killed anyone. It looks like Cordero killed Bertram with Cordero's gun. Nothing on Jane there. Then there's Cordero and McAllister. The gun found in McAllister's hand killed Cordero. That same gun wounded McAllister, who sure as hell didn't shoot himself. Problem? No clear prints from Jane were on that gun. Someone killed McAllister by strangling him. Crime of passion. The kind of hatred a man might have for the murderer of his wife and daughter. Once again, plausible, but circumstantial. Forensics tried but couldn't get clear prints from McAllister's neck. No one witnessed McAllister's murder. No one remembers Jane in the park. Unless Jane has a death wish and confesses, it simply isn't enough for a conviction. There are literally thousands of criminals linked to McAllister as head of the Blake Association. Patrick Jane would have stiff competition to be singled out as the only one uniquely motivated and able to kill McAllister. A good defense attorney would make hamburger of the prosecution's case. Anyhow, the PR aspects look worse and worse by the day. Grieving husband and father who happens to have an unbelievable track record in the CBI is brought up on flimsy charges for the murder of a serial killer who, by the way, was also the head of a corrupt law-enforcement network spanning 23 states. Oh, crap._


	20. Chpt 20-May'15-A Little Context for Jane

**California, May 2015**

"Karen Cross here with another interview related to our award-winning four-part series. The series covered the corrupt law-enforcement Blake Association network, the Red John serial killer, the CBI Special Crimes Unit investigation that cracked these cases, and the amazing ten-year record of Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon's CBI unit. Here tonight is former Senior Agent Lisbon to talk about the charges against her former consultant, Patrick Jane. Welcome, Ms. Lisbon."

Lisbon had made it a point of looking amazing. Jane had long since convinced her to use every weapon available in the arena of public opinion, even something as irrelevant as physical beauty. "Thank you, Karen," she purred. "I appreciate the chance to set the record straight."

"As I understand it, you feel Supervising Agent Dennis Abbott of the Austin, Texas FBI office unfairly represented the situation with Mr. Jane."

"Oh no, Karen. Agent Abbott's information was perfectly accurate. I just welcome the opportunity to provide some context."

"Can you briefly describe how Mr. Jane came to work with your unit?"

"Patrick Jane came to my CBI unit about a year after his wife and daughter were brutally murdered by serial killer Red John. My unit was assigned the case when the CBI assumed responsibility from the Sacramento Police Department. Although Mr. Jane was a civilian, it was immediately clear he had skills that were extremely useful for investigating crimes. He had tremendous natural abilities for profiling criminals."

"What happened then?"

"CBI Director Virgil Minelli hired him as a consultant to work with my unit."

"So your team worked on the Red John case as well as other cases?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, we frequently hit dead ends on Red John and had to wait for more...evidence to become available. We solved other crimes as well as worked on Red John."

"Was Mr. Jane helpful?"

"Absolutely. Before Mr. Jane started consulting with us, my team had the best record in the Sacramento CBI office for closing cases and getting convictions. Mr. Jane's talents improved our record over that. With his assistance, we closed _all_ our assigned cases and had the highest conviction rate in the state."

"Did Mr. Jane make any special contributions to the Red John case?"

"Yes. Mr. Jane became the CBI expert on Red John. No one had more extensive knowledge or keener insight into the case."

"Was he just helpful in analyzing data?"

"Patrick Jane often risked his own life not only in pursuing Red John, but also in solving other cases. For instance, he allowed himself to be used as bait in a dangerous, six month undercover operation in Las Vegas to try to apprehend Red John."

"Couldn't other agents, other units have gotten Red John?"

"No. Over the course of a year, Mr. Jane used his extraordinary memory and analytical abilities to sift through over 2,700 possible suspects to identify seven men who might be Red John. It turned out that Red John _was_ among those suspects. Mr. Jane–and my team–also uncovered the corrupt law-enforcement Blake Association network in the course of the Red John investigation."

"Well it certainly sounds like Patrick Jane was an incredibly valuable asset to your team. But what about the murder charges Agent Abbott mentioned? Did Patrick Jane murder Thomas McAllister, the man who was the serial killer Red John?"

"No one witnessed how Thomas McAllister died. I am not part of the investigation, but as I understand it, the events on August 11 that left McAllister, Gale Bertram, and Robert Cordero dead are far from clear. Please remember that Patrick Jane had personally been threatened several times by Red John. In the absence of witnesses, how can self-defense be ruled out? As I understand it, there is no hard evidence linking Mr. Jane to any crime that day."

"But why would an innocent man flee? Mr. Jane could have turned himself in once he knew the FBI wanted to question him."

"Karen, Patrick Jane had nearly four-thousand reasons to flee," Lisbon said clearly and slowly. "He broke up a network of three-thousand-four-hundred Blake Association criminals. He identified Red John, who had dozens or hundreds of additional friends and supporters. _Every one of those violent criminals had good reason to kill Patrick Jane for destroying their network and their leaders, and for putting them on the path to arrest, conviction, and imprisonment."_

"Agent Abbott said the FBI would have protected him."

"Karen, some FBI agents were members of the Blake Association. The criminal network was gradually rooted out over the past year and a half across 23 states. Any one of those criminals from any branch of law-enforcement could have killed him during that process. Simply, no one in law enforcement could credibly guarantee his safety till _after_ the Blake Association and Red John supporters were _all_ identified, apprehended, and incarcerated. Personally, I am still not sure every last one of them has been identified and arrested."

"Isn't it true that Mr. Jane vowed to kill Red John several times in the ten years since his family was murdered?"

"Yes. It may not have been wise for him to say that. But that's far from proof of anything. Having been in law enforcement for two decades, I know people say many things. Our system of justice requires proof–evidence–_beyond a reasonable doubt._ The charges against Mr. Jane appear far from meeting that standard."

"Mr. Jane certainly had motive to carry out his threat."

"Perhaps. But Thomas McAllister–Red John–was associated with literally thousands of violent criminals. I have no idea of how many or them–or their victims–might have had motive to kill McAllister. I am not trying to prove anything in this interview. I just ask that context be considered. And that Mr. Jane be given due process. He is innocent until proven guilty."

"What is your interest in Mr. Jane's future? What was your relationship with him?"

"He was a colleague for ten years. I still consider him a friend. We were never involved beyond that."

"Is there anything else you would like to say about Red John, the Blake Association, or Patrick Jane?

"As the FBI strives to solve the murder of a notorious serial killer, I hope the press and public take a moment to remember the greater context. Patrick Jane turned an unimaginable personal tragedy into a role in law-enforcement that helped solve nearly a thousand crimes, including cracking the Blake Association and Red John cases. That is no small public service. Thank you so much for this opportunity to provide a broader perspective on the charges against Mr. Jane."

"That concludes our interview with former Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon."

~.~.~.~

**South America, one year and nine months since Red John**

May, 2015

Dear Lisbon,

Health, wealth and happiness to you! That's a hoary pub toast, I know. I just saw the interview you did with Karen Cross and euphoric is too pale a term for how I feel! Teresa, you were fantastic. (You _looked_ fantastic, too, by the way.) I know you simply presented the counter arguments to the charges Abbott had filed, but they certainly were nice to hear. Your memories of the mountains of paperwork I generated for you must have dimmed after so long. Thank you, my treasured friend and partner.

Yes, I was in the city and used the internet to watch the interview. How did you cajole Cross into being so accommodating? I always found her brusque and somewhat cynical. No matter. I'll take all breaks I can get.

Before I forget, the summer diversions begin now and delivery of my letters may become sketchy. After all this time I imagine you all have it well in hand. (I miss all of you!)

I'm back to swimming and hiking as often as possible. Since I've been going into the city so much I have ordered and picked up numerous books to read, including several more books of Sudoku puzzles. Franklin continues providing a steady supply of puzzles from the city paper and foreign publications. So far I haven't succumbed to brain rot.

Having yet to discover any artistic ability in myself, I bought a camera on my last trip to the city. (Still want to make a serious effort to learn to sketch and/or paint well, some day.) The scenery is gorgeous and I want to capture certain views at different times of day as the light changes. Maybe I'll make a point of taking photos of all my favorite places. That would be a good excuse/motivation to go back to all of them. Of course, I also want to photograph favorite people here, too. Thinking about it, I have very little in the way of a tangible record from my last ten, eleven years. I'm doing my best to forget certain aspects of those years. But, working with you and the team are among the best things I have experienced and I want something tangible of that. Yeah, my memory palace is quite useful, but holding a photograph or memento (or warm body–but we won't go there) is different. If I get the chance, I'm going to remedy that lack.

Other than time spent swimming or hiking, my attention increasingly turns to US events and the wider world. The isolation and simplicity served their purpose. The quiet and calm were necessary to work through everything. Now that I am (mostly) finished with that, I'm more restless than ever.

And I miss you more than ever.

You know who (better than anyone else, in fact)

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, May 2015**

Sitting in her office, Lisbon skimmed the local newspaper to be sure she kept tabs on current and up-coming events. She needed to know about anything that might attract a crowd, cause a fight, or create a public health hazard. Usually city permits for parades, public events, and large gatherings gave her all the heads up she needed. An article caught her eye and she sat straighter, realizing she had missed something. A carnival was scheduled to open next week two towns over. The carnival was new to the area, an area which tended to be skipped over in preference for bigger cities. What she had missed was that the main road to that town ran through Cannon River. Much of the traffic generated by the carnival would affect her city, too. She called in Henry and directed him to find out the details.

The day the carnival opened Lisbon approved overtime for the Cannon River patrol officers to handle traffic and any problems that might arise. The extra traffic was good for local businesses, which benefited from travelers stopping for food, gas, and even lodging. Cotton candy, funnel cakes, candy apples and the like were tasty and part of the fun. Parents were usually wise enough to stop for lunch or dinner outside the carnival to avoid exorbitant prices for mediocre food, and to avoid ruining the outing with too many sweets on empty stomachs. The carnival would be there from Thursday through Sunday. Lisbon relaxed when everything went smoothly the first day.

Friday after work, Lisbon decided to check out the carnival in person. It wasn't necessary but, as always, she had time on her hands and the entertainment options in Cannon River were limited. Also, the carnival reminded her of Jane. _Maybe I can see how the performers compare to Jane. He's always complaining about being rusty but never had a problem picking my pockets or palming evidence that he should have left alone. A magic act might be amusing if they have one._ She decided to go in her uniform and a marked PD car. The symbols of law enforcement alone helped maintain public order.

Lisbon was given a complimentary pass without even asking, the carny folk themselves well aware of the value of visible law enforcement for preventing problems. It wasn't just the crowds, but the pick-pockets, the pedophiles, an occasional prostitute and other trouble that crowds attracted. She strolled around, smiling at the general hype and lurid displays. Uninterested in the rides (more fun with company than alone), she found the area for shows and performances and methodically worked her way through them. _The magic show was okay, but the guy has nothing on Jane._ She smiled to herself, amused at her parochial pride in _her_ con man's–_former_ con man's–abilities. Toward the end she noticed the signs for a psychic show, a palm reader, and an astrologer. _This should be fun._ The psychic put on a good show, but she thought she had a pretty good idea of how he pulled off his psychic "insights." The palm reading was filled with broad, vague predictions impossible to prove, or disprove. She decided to check out the astrologer and stopped short when she found herself face to face with..._Sam!_ Sam didn't miss a beat.

"Chief Lisbon. Please come in and I'll tell you what the stars reveal."

"Sam! I had no idea. Is this your carnival? How come I never knew you came up this way?"

"First time for everything, Chi–"

"_Teresa_, please. We most certainly are family after all this time, all those letters."

"Teresa, the carnival voted to try a pre-season pass through this area. It's what you call 'under-served.' So far, the carnival's done pretty well. No competing carnivals and not a lot of other diversions."

"Oh! I'm sorry, you're working. I shouldn't be taking up your time."

Sam countered smoothly, "Well, the obvious solution is for me to do your chart. Ever have an astrology chart done for you before, Teresa?"

"Uh, no. I don't really–"

"I know. You don't really believe in all this. That's okay," she responded brightly. "Neither does Patrick, but he tolerates me quite well. He still hasn't figured out how I get it right so often."

"That sounds like a challenge. You two argue?"

"No. It's what I do for a living. As a con man–or former con man–he hasn't a leg to stand on. What's your birth date and time, Teresa?"

"Umm, September 8, 1976. I believe I was born in the morning."

"Can you remember an exact time? It's important."

Lisbon closed her eyes, trying to picture her birth certificate. "Yeah. It was 3:30 a.m."

...Half an hour later Sam had given her a verbal reading and some canned written paragraphs for her astrological sign (Virgo). Despite herself, Lisbon was impressed. Sam's reading was on target. Lisbon realized Sam already knew a lot about her. Further, much of what Sam did was similar to what Jane did, reading clues both obvious and subtle from the person's appearance, diction, accompanying family or friends, and so on. To her surprise, Lisbon enjoyed herself. She insisted on paying Sam for the reading. In turn, because it was Teresa and because it was Sam, Sam got her mailing address and promised to send a detailed chart which would take into account all the minor influences and subtleties of astrological interpretation. Despite not believing in any of it, Lisbon enjoyed indulging in the "all about me" occasion. When she glanced at the colorful envelopehertaining her preliminary reading, she realized Sam had slipped in a letter from Jane. She stopped back at Sam's tent shortly before closing time and invited Sam and Pete to dinner. The town had a really nice restaurant and this was a legitimate opportunity to visit with people who gradually had become real friends–not just Jane's friends.

~.~.~.~

Lisbon got home late and turned in immediately. The next morning, she checked with her officers to make sure the extra traffic from the carnival was well in hand, then took care of weekend chores. Finally, she had time to read Jane's letter late in the evening.

Lisbon smiled at his extravagant compliments. She sobered quickly. _Oh, Jane. I have no sympathy for that bastard McAlllister who slaughtered your family, Bosco and so many others. And I have no qualms about eviscerating the government's weak murder case against you. I'll be damned if they hound you in the press without bothering to point out the extraordinary good you did for California and the nation. But I can't delight in your having killed someone, no matter how much he had it coming. If you're finally at peace, I'm glad. But it costs you a piece of your soul. That's how I feel about the perps I've had to kill in the line of duty. The only thing we have to fall back on is that it serves a greater good, prevents the deaths of more innocents. And I guess that's good enough. But it's not cause for celebration. At least I got across the irony of the Feds relentlessly pursuing the man who terminated the reign of a serial killer responsible for thirty deaths personally and dozens or hundreds more indirectly. I have to laugh or I'd cry._

_ Happy to hear you're reading, swimming, hiking, getting involved in new things. That's the Jane I've known for ten–no, eleven–years. The camera's fine, but why are you suddenly concerned with recording things, having keepsakes of good memories? Are you going to leave Venezuela?_

_ What if you came back to the US? The government's case is so weak I can't imagine they could get a conviction for McAllister's murder. Of course, they've piled on a bunch of garbage charges–grand theft auto? really?!–that probably would stick. _She sighed._ Even if you weren't convicted, it would take a couple of years of your life for the trial. You've laid enough of your life on the altar of your family's murders, especially now that you're feeling better. So what's going on in your head? Hah! "You know who (better than anyone else...)"? How come I never feel that way? _

_ I'll keep hoping for the best. Good night, Jane._

_~.~.~.~_

**Los Angeles, California May 2015**

"...Just in on the entertainment front. A new internet fan site is ON FIRE with young teen girls across the nation! The site is devoted to two fictional crime fighters, Patrick Lane and Teresa Jisbon, plus their tough, funny teammates. The tragic stories of the main characters are spiced up by the ever-present possibility of romance (none yet, strictly G-rated). Meanwhile, these super-effective investigators solve crimes with a cheeky mix of standard investigative work, wit and physical prowess. In just two months, visits to the site are now several hundred thousand per month. Free to fans, Internet ads fund site operations. Interesting factoid? In the back story provided for the characters, the web master claims the fictional characters are based on the lives of real people. We'll keep you posted."

~.~.~.~

**Austin, Texas, May 2015**

"Agent Cho, have a seat." After a moment. "I have some questions about your CBI work. More precisely, about your unit's record."

Abbott tapped his pen on an email printout on his otherwise empty desktop.

"I am getting some very pointed questions from Washington FBI division heads about Patrick Jane. Ever hear of him?" After a minute of silence, more sharply, "I said, 'Ever hear of him?'"

"Yes, sir. I thought the question was rhetorical since I obviously know Patrick Jane."

"I have here," Abbott took a DVD disk from a desk drawer, "a DVD of a speech Jane gave at a CBI retreat. Know anything about that?"

"If it's the August, 2009 retreat, I gave a copy to my Academy instructor _at his request, _sir."

"Now why would he make that request?"

"The Karen Cross specials have made the Blake Association, Red John, and my former CBI unit a news item. My instructors were interested. When they asked me questions, I answered them."

"Why would they care?"

"Jane had unusual profiling abilities. My instructors were interested in knowing what he did, how he did it, and his results."

"And what were those results?"

"Our unit closed every case we were assigned over ten years. The conviction rate for our cases was highest in the state for all CBI units. We cracked the Red John and Blake Association cases, as well."

"And Patrick Jane made significant contributions to earning that record?"

"Yes."

"So, _hypothetically_, would you recommend the FBI hire Jane as a consultant?"

"No."

"No? You surprise me, Agent. Why not? Jane wouldn't solve cases for us like he did for the CBI?"

"Jane would solve cases. In my opinion his...personality and mode of operating are not a good fit with the FBI."

"Well, I'm happy to hear you say that because that is _exactly_ my take. However, the powers that be are interested in Jane. I have an assignment for you. I want detailed statistics on the cases your CBI unit worked on while Lisbon was head of your unit. Type of crime, time to close the case, disposition, and–where charges were filed–conviction tally by charge. I want the statistics broken out by cases handled before Jane was hired, and after. You have complete access to the files we seized when the CBI was disbanded. Pick up your airline tickets at the reception desk. I want that report in a week. I need hard, crisp data on this, not TV hype designed to sell soap. And, Agent Cho-"

"Yes?"

"Heaven help you if you fudge the numbers, gloze over unfavorable information, or mislead me in any way. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's all."

After turning away from Abbott to leave, Cho allowed himself a tight, slight smile. _I don't have to fudge anything. Our record really is that good. As Jane would say, "Time to throw a cat in with the pigeons."_


	21. Chpt 21-Jun'15-Let The Feds Make You

**South America, one year and ten months after Red John**

June, 2015

Dear Sam and Pete,

Hope you're both doing well. And give my regards to James and Luke and his family. I'm fine if bored with life here. Fortunately, I may not have to be here forever.

I have a new twist on the favor I'm asking of you. Next time you deliver a letter to Teresa, let the Feds make you.

I _want_ the Feds to find out where I am from the postmark, but without knowing I engineered it. That means one of you will have to be obvious enough for them to make you. With the FBI's limitless pot of Federal dollars I'm sure they keep her under surveillance.

There is a risk to you. I've thought about it, but unfortunately I can't see a way around it. The risk should be manageable. The Feds could hassle you for receiving mail from a wanted fugitive, but I don't think they'd bother with charges. What you're doing is pretty minor–it's me they want. I am sorry, my friends, that I cannot guarantee it will stop with hassling. The odds are very good and, of course, if it ever got to a trial I would cover the cost of the best attorney available. You have clean records which would mean no sentence or a light one even if they managed to get a conviction.

As for me, no worries there. Venezuela doesn't have an extradition treaty with the US. The FBI cannot legally touch me. (There's always the illegal route, but I can't see them choosing that approach. They'd want me to stand trial to make an example of me.)

Trust me that this is all working out. With luck, I'll be visiting you for Christmas. Thanks again. I owe you.

Me

~.~.~.~

**South America, one year and ten months after Red John**

June, 2015

Dear Lisbon,

Hope you are fine. All is well here.

I'm swimming and hiking daily to fill the time. The sky is a deep blue, and the water a lovely aqua-marine. I'm spending more time outdoors at night to avoid the hottest time of the day.

One advantage of living by the sea is the seafood. It is impossible to describe the pleasure of eating seafood which is no more than a couple of hours from boat to meal. Alas, it is considerably harder to come by some of my other favorite foods, such as lamb. I'll survive.

Although I miss the intellectual challenge of solving cases, I cannot imagine going back to the life I lead for ten years. I've moved on, here, in this pretty good facsimile of paradise. It's peaceful not having to strive, just letting it all go. I have my books and puzzles from the papers and that is good enough. Going back seems like it would be going backward. Not healthy.

I think I have an idea of how I could help my friend Franklin. Education isn't the key for him and outright charity would be offensive. He has more pride than to accept a handout. I plan to offer him a loan–any reasonable amount–that he can use to start a business. My terms would be easy, of course. He is very enterprising and this could make a big difference for him.

Making friends in this different culture remains a problem. Remember how Bosco and I were good friends? I can only dream of replicating that close, honest relationship here. I'll keep working on it.

Meanwhile, I ask you to trust that I know what I'm doing–trust me. Know that this is working out as well as it possibly could. Some day I hope to see you again, hope you can visit this paradise. We'll share a sundae again or maybe blueberry muffins. Fondly,

Your partner in crime (solving)

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, June 2015**

Another summer break, another safety campaign. Lisbon decided to use the same measures that were so effective last summer, with a few modifications. This year the patrol officers would use the cantaloupe-helmet-sledge hammer stunt for high schoolers as well as middle- and elementary-school children. The younger teens in high school still rode bikes. And some of the older teens rode motorcycles. Both groups needed to understand the difference a helmet could make in protecting their heads. Thanks to Jane's influence, she would go with dramatic impact over scientific accuracy any day, because the former would convince the kids.

The newspaper articles, posters, presentations, and car wrecks on display were the same otherwise. She made the same standing offer to driving age students. The driver's ed equipment would be set up to simulate the slower reflexes and impaired vision of someone with a blood alcohol level over the legal limit. (She wasn't going to put too fine a point on the fact they could not drink legally at that age. Practical as always, Lisbon was more interested in dealing with reality.) She would give any driving-age teen who drove a perfect simulation under those conditions a gift card for a local amusement. Because of the stellar accident statistics from last summer, she was able to get the local bowling alley, movie theater, amusement park, skating rink, and water park to donate the outings rather than having to fund them herself. Those businesses got publicity and good will out of the deal. And maybe one of their children would avoid suffering in an accident.

Lisbon was walking to her SUV after work. She was surprised to see Pete's beat up truck in the lot nearby. He got out and approached her, envelope in hand. _What the hell?! _Lisbon frowned a bit at how...exposed, how visible it was. She caught her breath when the light breeze lifted the envelope from his hand and blew it a hundred feet away. Fortunately a pedestrian in a black suit saw what happened and chased it down. He picked it up, glanced at the envelope and handed it back to Pete. Lisbon stood stock still, every instinct telling her this was a set-up. Pete thanked the good Samaritan but his face was wrinkled in a fierce frown. He turned and openly handed it to Lisbon.

"Thank you. How are things, Pete?"

"Everything's fine, Teresa." Face close to hers and toward a blank brick wall, he winked, turned and left.

~.~.~.~

Lisbon was home in ten minutes, dropped her purse on the counter, and quickly put gun and holster in her home safe. She took a cold can of soda and Jane's letter into the den. She closed the drapes and put the whole box of Jane's letters on the couch. Before anything else, she closely inspected the box. Covered in cloth, there were some loose threads around the corners. Lisbon had carefully lined one thread up with a seam. Anyone who opened that box other than herself wouldn't know to line that thread up the same way. She sighed in relief. No one had opened the box in her absence. She scooped out the letters, put a rubber band around them, and hid them under a loose floor board under the couch. Now it was really unlikely they would be discovered. She returned the blank paper and matching envelopes to the box, and placed it back on the bookcase. She wasn't sure what was going on, but she certainly didn't want Jane's letters discovered. She sank onto the couch and slit the sides of the self-mailer.

Skimming the brief letter she shook her head. The tone, length, topics–everything was wrong. Pressing her lips into a tight line, she leaned back, took a deep breath, and read slowly and carefully.

_ Okay, first things first. Is this from Jane at all? Yes, I think so. No one else would know to mention the sundaes and muffins. And the comments about Franklin continue what he was talking about in previous letters. The attitude toward outright charity rings true, as well. So, yeah, Jane wrote this._

_Now, why is it so out of character? It sounds like the letters he wrote early on, before he had...healed, before he worked through it all. A lot of this flat out contradicts previous letters. Jane, unless I've been misunderstanding you for months, you __do__ want to go back to _working with me and solving cases. You aren't cut out for the "not striving" life. _And the Bosco stuff is so far off it's ludicrous. You __know__ I would read that as a hundred percent wrong. So that's gotta be your way of telling me this letter is fake, intended to mislead...who?_

_ Well, who the hell is after you? The FBI. And Pete intentionally gave the whole thing away. He made it obvious–in a non-obvious way–that he was delivering that envelope to me. Then that guy in the suit returns the envelope...after looking at the address. And who the hell wears a black suit in the middle of summer around here? Could be some random guy, but it's more likely an FBI agent. So Pete deliberately told the FBI your location–or at least the Venezuela post office. And Pete would do that... only if you told him to._

_ Curiouser and curiouser. So this is what Jane's got in motion. He wants the FBI to know where he is. The FBI will go there and...do what? Venezuela doesn't have an extradition treaty, so they can't touch him. If they can't arrest him..._

_ Oh my God. Really, Jane?! You want the FBI to hire you, drop the charges, and legally get you back into the US. Holy shit. But what's going to convince the FBI that it wants you? Hmmm. All those Karen Cross specials and interviews were damn flattering, damn convincing about our–your–track record. Knowing you, there's probably other stuff you're doing to shore up that notion. I wonder if it will work?! Who but you would be on the run only to invite the Feds to hire you and drop the charges? I've gotta hand it to you, my devious friend: Slick. Let's hope it works._

Lisbon put the letter in with the blank stationery and proceeded to make dinner and do her evening chores. She missed getting a _real_ letter from Jane. Then she decided to re-read the last several letters to see what she could pick up about his scheme. She smiled in the sheer pleasure of seeing her master con man at work. Not to mention that she might get exactly what she wanted, too: Jane back in town and the possibility of a real relationship at last. _Life is never dull with Jane!_

~.~.~.~

**Austin, Texas, June 2015**

Abbott reached for the bottle of Pepto-Bismol stashed in his bottom desk drawer to quell the rising nausea. It was 8:00 a.m. and the email from the Washington FBI division heads had already ruined the day. Maybe the year.

_ The FBI is getting killed in the press over those damn Karen Cross specials. I don't know what the hell is going on, but suddenly there's a lot of positive buzz about Patrick Jane. Either we need to arrest him and make the murder charges stick. Or we need to find him, hire him, and quietly drop the charges. And if by some miracle it turns out we hire Jane, you better believe there'll be a clause in his contract forbidding any contact with the media. No interviews, no speeches, no books, no nothing._

_ The DC geniuses think Jane is just what the FBI needs for tough cases. At least they haven't completely lost contact with reality. And I am the one blessed with this assignment. First, check him out. Just exactly what is his track record at CBI? How much did he contribute versus just ride the coattails of a good team? Second, has he done anything lately that would disqualify him? Drugs, alcohol, gambling? Does he pay his taxes? Beat his wife–ugh, strike that. Beat his dog? Fraud, theft? He's a con man so there's probably something._

_ Oh, yeah. There are also the murders of, let's see, is it three or is it four people? Sheriff Hardy, clear-cut justified kill. Defense of others. Timothy Carter, in cold blood. Except that a jury acquitted Jane of all charges. And the guy turned out to be a good bet for being a serial killer himself. Then two years ago, McAllister and maybe Cordero. But the evidence just isn't there to prove either one. So he's already free and clear of the most important reasons he should_ not_ be working in law-enforcement._

_Assuming–big assumption!–Jane checks out on that stuff, where the hell is he? How interested is he in crime solving now? He's been out of the loop two years after, presumably, killing McAllister. Is he sharp, even able any more?_

~.~.~.~

A week later, Abbott dozed on the non-stop flight from Washington state back to Austin, Tx. He was gradually assembling the pieces of the puzzle.

_Track record. Check. Cho did a fine job of pulling together information on his CBI unit's track record. Damned if that record wasn't every bit as good as what I thought was TV hype. Lisbon's team was pretty good before Jane joined it. Of course, they were younger, even green at that point. After Jane joined them, their record was unbelievable. Closed every case. Almost all resulted in convictions on the main charges. _He mused idly,_ No wonder Lisbon's team got their back up when I shut down the CBI. They were stars who had earned every bit of their reputation. They weren't used to being dismissed and treated as potentially-dirty cops or screw-ups. Sponsoring Cho was a smart move on my part. Good agent. New to the FBI but plenty seasoned already. Hard to believe he _wasn't_ the star of that team._

He yawned and his ears popped as the plane changed altitude. _More amazing still, Jane didn't disqualify himself. No substance abuse. No tax evasion, fraud, theft. No gambling habit. _Half asleep, Abbott frowned. _Some rumors about the kind of gambling success that professionals dream about. It was hushed up, but Jane took the Calida casino for hundreds of thousands at blackjack by counting cards. That's some trick. Why the hell did Jane work for a civil servant's pay? –Oh yeah. Access to the Red John files. Now _there_ was his Achilles heel. Didn't exactly solve cases by the book. But never anything so bad Lisbon or Minelli or whomever had the pleasure of "managing" him couldn't get him out of. Shoot. That Vegas operation. Locking a perp in a coffin to get himself fired. Hey! It'd be funny if it wasn't torture and illegal. Got out of that, too. Just the window dressing on yet another attempt to get Red John. Anyhow, no disqualifying vices. _The plane touched down, bumping and rattling on the runway as the engines were reversed and it gradually came to a halt.

In the limo back to his home, Abbott reflected on the last bit. _Tried to recruit Lisbon for the effort, but she hates my guts. She was about as forthcoming as a brick wall. Denied any contact. I know she's lying. Jane's carny friends are sneaking his letters to her. At least we learned he's in Venezuela on Margarita Island from the post office cancellation mark. No point in strong-arming her unless she would willingly help get Jane to accept our offer. No chance of that, so I'll have to do it another way. Hey. It's an offer he can't refuse. Get out of jail free. And get the FBI out from under the PR spotlight._

~.~.~.~

**Sacramento, California, June 2015**

"Hi, thanks for taking my call. I'm Lannie Davidson from Hollywood Creations, Inc. I understand this is the phone number for the Lane-Jisbon website?"

"How can I help you?"

"I have an offer–by the way, what's your name, please?"

"I am the web master for that site. Go ahead."

"Well, my company would like to discuss merchandising for your characters. We think there's a market for action figures, comic books, and branded items such as backpacks and the like. I– ... Hello? Hello?"

The line was disconnected. He couldn't get another call to go through.


	22. Chpt 22-Jul'15-Someone Is Using My Life!

**South America, one year and eleven months since Red John**

July, 2015

Dear Lisbon,

I imagine you as beautiful as ever, vibrantly healthy and happy. I'm fine, though I'd be even better could I share your company and happiness. Maybe some day.

My idea on how to help Franklin seems to be on-target. I talked with him for a long while. I asked about his thoughts for his future–at least the part about making a living. You already know he's enterprising. I also broached the idea of him getting into politics. Although he hadn't thought about it, he had a lot of ideas about how the village could benefit from more opportunity. Of course, corruption exists and politics at the national level is vicious. There's nothing here like the US protections from predation by the politicians. However, Franklin grew up here and is sharp enough to game the system, evade the rapacious politicos. He was pleased when I told him I would lend him money if he wanted to start a business. Felt good. We'll talk more over the next few weeks.

Every day in paradise is pretty much the same. The views are breathtaking, weather perfect for a beach bum like me. Life is easy. Read a few more books. Enjoyed a few local festivals. For some reason we were celebrating the birds and sea-life of all things. Hey. Any excuse for a party. Good food, good music, good time.

This is a far cry from visiting grisly homicide scenes every week. What was appealing about that, again? Yeah, someone has to do it. It served my...other...purpose for awhile. But I think I've seen enough blood and mangled bodies for several lifetimes.

Not much news, of course. Next vacation, let me talk you into visiting. Till then, I remain,

Your friend

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, July 2015**

Lisbon pushed her sweat-damp hair off her forehead. _Why on earth did I wear my hair down today? Bad choice with the summer humidity._ It was a special occasion. Tommy and Annabeth Lisbon were visiting for the Fourth of July weekend. Lisbon had plenty of PD coverage for the fireworks, picnics, and special events, so she felt comfortable taking time for her family this once. Tommy was perennially short on cash and therefore put in long hours to try to make it. Teresa offered to pay their airfare. The fact that she would have had to buy a ticket if she traveled to visit them finally convinced him to accept her offer.

It was Saturday, July 4th. They went to a community picnic and a little local carnival–a few rides, a few food stands, some local bands, art displays, hand-crafted jewelry. They came back in late afternoon and had an early dinner. Teresa wanted to shower and relax before going back out in late evening to watch the fireworks. She left Tommy and Annabeth in the living room watching TV while she showered. Teresa came down the stairs, toweling her hair dry. She plopped onto the couch, ready for a little mindless TV. Entertainment Kaleidoscope was on. Annabeth moved to turn it off, but her aunt motioned her to leave it on. Teresa didn't watch a lot of TV, but wanted to find out when the final movie of the Hunger Games saga would be released. Teresa and Tommy were comparing notes on the Sacramento crime scene–he was still a bounty hunter for bond bailsmen–when something caught her attention.

Turning to the TV, the host was just finishing up a short piece, "...and there are rumors of merchandising deals in the works for the Patrick Lane and Teresa Jisbon characters from the hot new fan site. You'll know it as soon as we do! After a short break we'll bring you the latest on the cool new video game re–"

Teresa grabbed the remote and reversed the last several minutes to the beginning of the story. Annabeth hastily ducked into the kitchen. "Tommy, listen! Am I leaping to conclusions or is this one helluva coincidence?" Rapt, they both watched in silence. Teresa clicked off the TV, went to her computer and found the "hot new fan site" with a quick Google search. She murmured, "Come here, Tommy. Take a look at this." They checked out the site's various features, settling on reading the full background information provided for the characters.

"Can you believe this?! Someone is _using_ my life, my story to make money. Talk about an invasion of privacy!" she sputtered in outrage.

"Yeah. 'Reese, it sure seems like a direct lift. Not just you. Jane and your team, too."

Frustrated, with an edge of bitterness, "They changed some details. But anyone we know would figure it out in a minute. Who the hell has the balls to do something like this? I swear I'm going to find out who's behind this and sue their ass off. If the Cannon River board gets wind of this, I'll be a laughingstock."

"'Reese, calm down. You got ripped off. They can't blame you for that."

Teresa switched off her computer with more force than necessary. "Just wait till Monday when I can call a lawyer." She took a deep breath and set it aside for the time being, not wanting to ruin the holiday with her family.

Teresa bid Tommy and Annabeth goodbye late Sunday afternoon when they caught their flight back to Sacramento. It was a good visit and she was thrilled they were making time for her–maybe because she was finally making time for herself.

~.~.~.~

Lisbon arrived at work early on Monday. The holiday weekend had gone well. There were no major disturbances, only a few loud, drunken parties broken up by her officers. Best of all, there were no traffic fatalities or even bad accidents. This sort of success didn't provide the shot of adrenaline that taking down a violent criminal had in her former positions. But she took quiet satisfaction in knowing other families wouldn't have to cope with the kind of destruction visited upon her life by the drunk driver who had cost her mother her life over twenty years ago.

Now that the business week had started, Lisbon looked forward to dealing with the website that had exploited her life. She called and made a lunch date with Elise Hardin, her attorney friend, warning her it was business as well as pleasure. It was easiest to meet over lunch. Lisbon promised to buy lunch for both of them as well as pay for her time. Lisbon brought her computer with her, intending to show Elise the site. Surprisingly, the site was down and stayed down.

Lisbon came away less encouraged than she hoped. The character names and details were just different enough so they did not run afoul of laws concerning slander or invasion of privacy. If–if–she were lucky, a judge would impose a cease and desist order on the site owners, but even that was questionable since the differences left the site just shy of breaking any laws. As Elise told her, "You can sue anyone for anything. You just may not win." There was something that kept bothering her, but Lisbon couldn't quite place it.

When she pulled into her driveway after work, Pete pulled in after her in his pick-up truck. He handed her a letter from Jane. He didn't go out of his way to be obvious about it, but wasn't particularly subtle about it either.

Lisbon glanced down as he handed her the letter. "Pete," she said under her breath," this is intentional, right?"

He looked a bit surprised and breathed, "Yeah. It's all okay."

"I know."

"Should pan out in a few months, if it's gonna work at all."

"I know. Thanks."

~.~.~.~

Lisbon settled down to read the latest letter. She had added Jane's last letter to the bundle, no longer wanting to seem as though she were saving them. Realizing that Jane had changed the game with his last letter, she didn't expect an honest letter, just another intended to mislead the FBI. _Jane must think the FBI might read the letters, not just get his location from the postmark._

_Yeah, this one is written to mislead as well. The stuff about Franklin sounds real. All the rest is a snow job. But why is he making it sound like he has no interest in investigating any more? _She shook her head._ Playing hard to get. Jane, in for a penny, in for a pound. You're gonna play this for all it's worth, aren't you? _Of course_ you are._

Lisbon sat back, sipping her drink. She was pleased he had written every month without fail for two years. If nothing else, it was comforting to know he was okay, doing well physically and mentally. But these two fake letters were surprisingly painful. She had gotten used to a degree of candor that she had never enjoyed in person. Now the letters were a mask, a front for some ulterior purpose. It was a bigger loss than she would have thought.

She checked the "Lane-Jisbon" website again and found it was still down. She cleaned up and got ready for bed. Just before she fell asleep, she realized what was bothering her about the ripoff web-site. _The site has been down ever since I found out about it. But only Tommy and Annabeth knew I found out about it. Gotta check this out if it stays down... _She drifted off to sleep, troubled and determined to explore this lead... tomorrow.

~.~.~.~

Lisbon received a call from Grace Van Pelt at 8:00 a.m. After reassuring her that there was no emergency and everyone was well, Van Pelt asked if she were free that evening to meet. Uncharacteristically, Van Pelt wouldn't say anything about the reason for meeting. To Lisbon's surprise, Van Pelt and Annabeth Lisbon would drive up that day and arrive by 6 p.m. On a hunch, Lisbon checked and found the fan website was still down. In fact, she couldn't find out anything about it at all. Lisbon was beginning to develop some ideas about what the sudden visit might be about. She resolutely set aside any reactions, wanting to wait until she _knew_ the full story.

Van Pelt, Annabeth Lisbon, and Teresa Lisbon went out for dinner shortly after they arrived. Not having planned on company, Teresa was ill-prepared to play hostess. The restaurant was quiet. The booths' high sides protected the privacy of diners' conversations.

After ordering, Teresa opened the conversation, "Okay, Grace, Annabeth. What's this all about."

Van Pelt took a deep breath and plunged in. "Boss, I screwed up big time and I can only beg you to forgive my bad judgment."

Teresa smiled in spite of herself, "So who did you kill?"

"What?" Van Pelt asked, startled. "Uh, no one."

Teresa decided she wanted the full, unvarnished truth more than the groveling that Van Pelt seemed to be leaning toward. "Grace, I think I have an idea of what's going on. You spell it out now, and then we'll see where we are, you and I."

"Yes, ma'm. I–I–" Van Pelt got the "deer in the headlights" look. This was Van Pelt's characteristic reaction when faced with conflicting obligations to her friends.

"Grace, I have a pretty good idea of what Jane's up to. This is connected to Jane, right?"

Relief washed over Van Pelt's features. "Yeah. How do you know?"

"Jane's last letters to me are fake–designed to mislead the FBI. I can tell he's got some scheme in motion to try to get back here. So what does that have to do with you–other than the interviews with Karen Cross, I mean?"

"Darn it. You weren't supposed to know about this."

"Why not?"

"Jane didn't want you to be disappointed if it doesn't work."

"So you, Rigsby, and Cho? You're all in on it?" Van Pelt nodded. "And Annabeth, where do you fit in?"

For once caught flat footed, her niece looked down at her plate. "Uh-h-h-"

Van Pelt interjected, "Let me tell it, Boss. This really isn't Annabeth's fault."

"Out with it, Grace."

"Jane sent us a letter asking our help back in September–"

"That far back?!"

"Yeah. He asked Wayne, Cho and me to give him any help we could to publicize his CBI track record, his usefulness in solving crimes."

"So that's why you fed info to Cross?"

"Yes. That's why we did the interviews."

"What about Cho?"

"He's in the FBI and couldn't do interviews or openly endorse Jane. But I think he made a point of talking about him while he was at Quantico."

"Our record is so good that it would be favorable if Cho just stuck with the facts."

"Yeah. I think that's what he did."

"There's more?"

Van Pelt swallowed and looked away. "I got the idea of trying to create positive buzz for Jane through entertainment."

"Like a fan website, maybe?"

Ashamed, "Like a fan website. I found out that a lot of the FBI bigwigs have daughters, nieces, or granddaughters in the 10-to-16 age range. I thought if I put up a website with a fake Lisbon-Jane story it could create a favorable impression through the back door."

"Grace, if I weren't so pissed I'd say that's damn creative. What were you thinking? And you couldn't ask?"

"No, Jane said not to tell you because it would be a letdown if it didn't work."

"So help me, God. Did Jane put you up to this? I'll kill him if I ever see him again!"

"Boss, please. Jane didn't know anything about it. Look, when I was that age, I could get my dad to do almost anything. I figured the Lane-Jisbon stuff would reinforce whatever other positive information was out there. Karen Cross. Whatever information Cho's been putting out. And whatever else Jane might be doing."

"Annabeth, how did you get involved?"

"Grace and I had lunch. I was p.o.'d–"

"Language, Anna!"

"I was upset the interviews seemed to give all the credit to Jane. I thought Grace was being unfair to you. Then I figured out what she was doing and asked to help."

Van Pelt added, "Annabeth is the front for the website. I did all the computer stuff. We both wrote the character background info and some of the stories until fans started submitting their own."

Teresa sat back. "I am not happy about this. You should have asked. And, yes, I would have turned you down."

"Boss, I've taken down the website."

"But there's stuff that will float around the internet forever, now, right?"

"Yes."

"This is how we're going to fix this. I am going to file suit against the website. That will give me something sensible to say should I ever have to explain why my life is a fantasy world for teen girls. I will ask for a cease and desist, which you will comply with. And you will pay the legal and court costs. Right?

"Okay."

"Are there any other factors to consider?"

"Well, some companies wanted to advertise on the site with pop-up ads. But I think I can just refund their money for July to make them go away."

Teresa's eyebrows rose in surprise, "You were selling ads?!"

"We didn't want to, but then it looked...weird not to when that's how free websites usually make their money. Also, we had no idea it would become such a big deal. We had to start renting time on servers to handle all the traffic."

"So long as you can just end that, okay."

"What do we do with the extra money?" Van Pelt asked.

"What extra money?"

"I checked before we came up here. After we refund the July revenue, pay for the server time and pay taxes, we'll have about $63,500 left over."

"Annabeth, does your dad know about this?

"No, Aunt Teresa."

"Your punishment is that you get to tell him the whole story. No fudging. And you take whatever punishment he applies without any lip. There is a silver lining, however. The money left over is going into a college fund for you. That will be a big load off Tommy's mind. Grace, any problems with that?"

Relieved that she hadn't permanently damaged her relationship, "No, Boss. That's fine."

"Grace, just out of curiosity, what did Wayne think of all this?"

"He said you'd kill me."

"Listen to him next time, will you?"

Van Pelt and Annabeth Lisbon stayed over night at Teresa Lisbon's house, then left for the long drive back the next morning.

~.~.~.~

**Austin, Texas, July 2015**

"Agent Cho, in their infinite wisdom the Washington FBI division heads want to recruit Patrick Jane to work for the FBI. In return for dropping all charges, he'd be a consultant just like at the CBI. I'd like you to be part of the team to persuade him."

"With due respect, sir, that would be a mistake."

"Why? You've said he can do the work. Your former colleague–friend maybe?–would benefit by having all charges dropped."

"As we discussed before, I do _not_ think Jane is a good fit with the FBI."

"This isn't a confessional. Don't tell him."

"Sir, Jane reads people like their thoughts are printed on their foreheads. He would tell I wasn't sincere. That would make him_ less_ likely to agree."

"You make a good argument, Agent. Okay. By the way, would you work with him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I think I'd have a leg up on making it succeed. I already know him, know how he works."

"And you like him."

Cho didn't say anything.

After a moment. "Thought so. That's all, Agent."

Abbott put together his plans for tracking Jane down and recruiting him. He had the FBI prepare a profile of the man, and decided Agent Fischer could present the right...persona to keep tabs on Jane and maybe nudge him in the right direction. The trip was set for August.


	23. Chpt 23-Aug'15-Return

**South America, two years after Red John, August 2015**

Jane posted his latest letter to Lisbon. _ This pen pal routine is getting old. I want the living, breathing Lisbon, not one-way communication to some tantalizing memory of her. I'm finally free to have a future. Time to get on with it, with her._

_ How long till the Feds take the bait? I solved two of Homeland's cold cases, plus gave David suggestions on the remaining three. Three of Scotland Yard's cases should be closed by now, plus Slocomb has a new lead on another case. The FBI brass should have heard something favorable from that. Cho's now FBI, too. Wonder if he was able to help? Thanks to Van Pelt and Rigsby, I couldn't ask more from the Karen Cross specials. Then there was Lisbon's devastating presentation of ''context" to Abbott's interview. She pointed out the fatal flaws in the FBI's murder charges against me. If I hadn't killed them, _I_ would start doubting my guilt. Thank you computer nerds everywhere for the miracle of the internet. Could never do all this at a distance otherwise._

After a magic trick for the kids and a stop at the tailor, Jane hiked down to Alfredo's restaurant shack for breakfast. Alfredo made perfect eggs and tea. He could hardly help doing so once Jane maneuvered him into requesting a lesson so many months ago. Now, of course, Alfredo had the advantage of 20 months' daily practice.

Glancing at the other customers Jane did a mental double-take. _American woman, 30's, cop written all over her. Ah! They finally took the bait._ At least he thought so. A bit more patience and he'd know everything he needed to see how the game would unfold. Meanwhile, he would amuse and enjoy himself pretending to take her at face value. _A nice enough face. Plus, the advantage of English! God, I'm sick of Spanish–and my painfully inadequate command of it doesn't help._

After breakfast, a walk along the beach eventually brought Jane and Kim back to Alfredo's where they chatted at the bar. Jane had to shake himself mentally to keep alert, finding it all too easy to slide unthinkingly into enjoying Kim's company, into talking about something real. _Damn, I've been away too long. Wake up, Jane!_ The call from Franklin snapped him out of any wool-gathering. _Game's definitely afoot. Feds. I was right about Kim._ Jane and Kim hiked back to town and went together to Jane's shirt fitting at Victor's. They made a dinner date before Jane headed off to deal with Abbott. As expected, Franklin knew where Abbott was. As a bonus, Franklin clued him in about the identity of the thug who roughed up one of the kids after Jane's trick.

_Okay, first, make sure Abbott's here to recruit me. Then, a little hard-nosed hard-to-get will help put things on my terms. If this is gonna work at all, gotta erase any notion I'll dance to their tune. And let's just see if Abbott can be trusted..._ Jane did the opening dance with Abbott and determined his window of opportunity. –The FBI team would be leaving the next day.

Jane surprised himself by caring more about dinner with Kim than he expected. He _cared_ about looking good, about being good company. Of course, Kim was a symbol of the life he wanted going forward, a stand-in for Teresa. He took his ring off as an experiment._ How will it feel this time?_ He hadn't been able to go through with it years ago on his one date with Kristina._ That was before I fulfilled my duty to my family by killing the bastard. Am I really ready for a new life with Teresa after two years in this prison paradise? Better be, or why the hell am I risking going back to the US?_

He had every intention of enjoying himself while also getting answers to what the FBI wanted (by implication) and even to what he, himself, wanted. Of course he and Kim would talk about going back to the US. Kim's role with the FBI would guarantee that. Jane resolved to sprinkle the discussion with enough doubts to reinforce the idea that he had to be persuaded, that the FBI was pursuing him. _They could take me by force, even if illegal. But for solving cases, they need my willing cooperation, my best efforts. So far as they know–so far as they'll ever know if I play it right–they need to pay attention to the care and feeding of Patrick Jane so he'll reluctantly agree to work for them. Yeah._ Dinner was pleasant and the conversation in English with a cultural simpatico was elixir to his spirit. Dancing afterward was an unexpected joy capping the evening

Getting beaten up? Not so much. He wouldn't remember much, but he would remember Danny Ortero and his thugs were to blame.

Last night's tequila and beating left Jane uncharacteristically at a loss when he woke. He was grateful for Kim's honesty, at least about that. Nothing had happened with her, After two years of yearning for Lisbon (_two years? –twelve!)_, a one-night stand with a woman assigned to scope him out was not appealing. _Teresa deserves better than that from me._ He swallowed, uncomfortably aware that the last time female company was sent his way was a humiliating attack by his worst enemy. _Hell. _I_ deserve better than that!_ The FBI wasn't quite equivalent to a serial killer, but he didn't need to be played by his opponent. Especially when–post-Red John-it touched upon his reason for getting up every morning. Kim's excellent cup of tea both revived him and confirmed that she was a plant. Americans just _didn't make_ excellent tea without a reason and training. _Definitely a plant._

Danny Ortero didn't realize it, but his off-handed killing of Alfredo's dog Hugo sealed a not very pleasant fate. Jane added Ortero to his "to-do-before-leaving-the-island" list. It was down to the last few hours and Jane's call to Abbott ensured he would be going with the Feds. He also would put down a marker of his demands, his terms, the important of which were Lisbon and dropping the charges. Then a call to Franklin got him the whereabouts of Ortero's drug suppliers, and the meeting time and place for the transaction.

A few hours later, Ortero was arrested, Abbott had told Jane he could work with his terms (the five copies would provide a reminder if he forgot) and Jane was boarding the airport bus that would take him to the plane for the first leg of the journey back to the US. Jane promised Franklin he would be in touch to provide the loan they had discussed. Jane left with an unsettling mix of happiness and apprehension. _Step one: Accomplished._

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, August 2015**

Van Pelt called Lisbon at the Cannon River PD, where there was less chance of her call being monitored. She wondered if her cloak-and-dagger concerns were overblown, but she neither trusted nor liked Abbott now any more than she had when he disbanded the CBI–which was to say, zero. Cho had called their detective agency on a disposable cell phone. Van Pelt got the call because Rigsby was out working for a client. As soon as they boarded the plane, Cho had gotten word the FBI was bringing Jane back to the US. He told her that calling Lisbon himself would be too obvious. Still new to the Austin, TX office, he did not want to be caught talking about FBI business outside the FBI. He feared Lisbon still might be under surveillance–at least electronically.

~.~.~.~

**Austin, Texas, August 2015**

Jane got out of the van, trailed by his three minders-guards. Not one, not two, but three. It was a typical bureaucratic application of force when finesse was really needed. He was mildly amused and mildly contemptuous that Abbott thought three were necessary as he had no inclinations toward escape, especially not one that would require three guards to prevent. If he hadn't wanted to work for the FBI, he could have sneaked into the US at any time. _If this is what the FBI profilers recommend, it won't be hard to shine compared to such "talent."_

Apprehensive, Jane paused to take in his first view of the Austin FBI building. Stone, concrete, glass, steel. Hard, smooth, cold. Sharp edges, ninety-degree angles. White, gray, black. Nothing about the building spoke to or reflected humanity-texture, detail, color, comfort. _Who the hell designs these things, computers? This could pass for the 21__st__ century version of Soviet architecture under Stalin. All about the power of the state over the individual. Fake heroic. But not human. _He drew in a deep breath, momentarily wondering whether this had been a good idea. He could already feel a tightness in his head, in anticipation of glare and echoing noise promised by an interior that would reflect the exterior. The building was a far cry from the CBI building's weathered brick, wooden floors, art deco metalwork, and sheer age. It was a far cry from the CBI building's connection to the city and its history. Then, thinking of Lisbon, he decided it would do and he would prevail. _So long as people are involved, I'll be okay, Ambition, weakness, pride, fear, even love. They're always the same, always the keys. Plus I have a few trump cards._

Walking into the lobby, he was greeted by a familiar voice.

"Jane."

"Cho." Jane's voice was high and broke a bit. Only an old friend would notice. Cho noticed. "Ha! You never cease to amaze me." Relief warmly washed over him at the unexpected presence of a friend, of one positive, known element among the unknowns he faced.

"I got him from here, guys." To Jane's relief, he three minders disappeared.

They walked up a staircase designed more to be impressive than functional. Cho had finished training five months ago. Jane was a little disturbed at how in-place Cho seemed in this building, this environment. Cho's question about socks struck him as more about conformity than Jane found comfortable.

"...You just don't seem too happy to see me," Jane hazarded.

"I _am_ happy to see you. I just wish it was under different circumstances."

"Why is that?"

"I don't think you and the FBI are gonna get along very well. I don't think they really understand how you operate."

"Ah. They'll loosen up once they get to know me..." _So Cho _didn't_ approve of my idea of working for the FBI, but helped anyway. And now that I'm here, he'll work with me–try to make it work out. Go, Cho! _Cho's presence tremendously increased the odds that it _would_ work out.

Opening the conference room door, Jane stopped dead, overwhelmed with sheer pleasure at the fact of Lisbon's presence after four-thousand miles and 700-odd days of separation. After a moment he was able to speak. "Hey."

"Hello. Nice beard."

Her voice shimmered in his head. _Real at last, not just a memory._

"Thank you." The awkwardness dissolved and they embraced like the old, close friends and more-than-friends that they were.

"Thank you for the letters."

Despite all the emotion he somehow was able to form a coherent thought._ So she got my letters and they made a difference. Interesting that it's the first significant thing she mentioned. _

"Oh, I missed you," he said with more emotion that he would normally display, deeply inhaling the fragrance of her hair as they hugged, four of his five senses intoxicated by her closeness.

"I missed you, too." She drew back a bit. "What's going on, huh? Why am I here?"

They broke apart, despite Jane's reluctance to totally give up physical contact with her. "You'll see. It's gonna be great."

"What?"

"Trust me."

Lisbon had long ago realized "trust me," was carny–or maybe con man–code for "I have a plan in motion, let me lead" rather than words intended to provide emotional comfort. Her shoulders tightened with tension, aware that she had re-boarded the roller coaster that was Jane's life. For better or worse, her life _would_ change, _would_ warp around the charismatic, magnetic, brilliant force of nature named Patrick Jane. _The FBI won't have a clue what hit them._ She was a little flattered, a little worried that Jane couldn't take his eyes off her, couldn't stop grinning. _You need to focus on Abbott. He's no friend, Jane!_

So far as Jane was concerned, the rest of the meeting was a denouement, the last step of the first part of his plan. The last big question on the table was whether Abbott was a man of honor whose word meant something. Or, was Abbott about legalese, about win-lose (and preferring to be on the win side, fairness and honor be damned)? Abbott's "I am telling you _that_ is a napkin" answered the question. Of course, Abbott completely misunderstood Jane's position. The napkin _was _the agreement if Abbott had chosen to honor his word, regardless of legalities. The fact that he didn't gave Jane the knowledge and freedom to play Abbott. Jane had no doubt he would get his terms in due time. In fact, since Abbott had no intention of honoring the agreement, Jane was happy knowing that now, before Lisbon was jerked around while they jockeyed for position. People were people. Jane had no doubt he would prevail.


	24. Chpt 24-Aug-Oct'15-Detention

**Austin Texas, August-October, 2015**

Jane wasn't unhappy. The detention cell wasn't bad for someone who had grown up in a tin can otherwise known as an RV. Sharing it with his father back then, he would have preferred to be alone. The FBI detention cell–"suite"-had advantages: Clean, a minimalist but functional bathroom, a bed, tea, healthful (if uninspired) food, and a steady supply of English-language books. There was an hour per day of exercise outdoors. There was even enough room in his cell to exercise when he tired of reading. Of course, his pleasure in sleeping and access to his memory palace were other ways of profitably passing the time.

What his cell lacked was freedom and human contact. He got to see Kim Fischer once a week like clockwork when she inquired as to whether he would agree to the FBI's terms (he wouldn't). Occasionally Cho would stop by for a few moments. Jane was sure Cho was pushing the envelope, but appreciated the risks his friend took to make contact. He got no letters from Lisbon although he was sure she was writing to him. Nonetheless, the 15 minutes he had seen her had been tremendously helpful. He had four senses' worth of memory palace impressions to revisit and enjoy. He had the comfort of _knowing_ that she welcomed him, was glad to see him. In that way he was better off than he had been for two years.

As with many other psychological and psychiatric topics, Jane had read extensively about the effects of solitary confinement. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't benign. Without sufficient environmental and social stimulation, formerly healthy prisoners tended to exhibit a host of symptoms: Difficulties with thinking, concentration and memory; hypersensitivity to external stimulus; perceptual distortions-hallucinations; panic attacks; intrusive obsessive thinking (often involving fantasies of attacking, killing, and mutilating the guards or others imposing the confinement); and, paranoia. Some impairment was seen in virtually everyone after 60 days. The longer the confinement, the more severe the symptoms. Worst of all, problems lingered after solitary confinement ended. Depending on the country and body rendering judgment, solitary confinement could be considered torture. It was widely considered inhumane.

Jane had advantages over the usual prisoner. He was there by choice and could end it at will. He knew the FBI couldn't engage in outright torture. With access to books, he could look upon this as an opportunity to catch up on two years' worth of reading. And after ten years of hunting–and being hunted by–Red John, the FBI seemed positively benevolent by comparison.

Patience was his greatest friend. Impatience was among the biggest causes of failure in a con, a perspective which permeated him to his bones. While he had unlimited time and peace of mind, Abbott and those above him had worries about performance evaluations, and raises (or lack thereof), and promotions, and reputations, and goals. Every month someone somewhere would note the continued failure of Abbott to achieve a successful conclusion. People who had stuck their necks out to recruit him would be increasingly desperate to make it work. Someone was probably worrying over a rule limiting the duration of solitary confinement. And, of course, if Jane were to become mentally unbalanced (he wouldn't, but they didn't know that), it would destroy his usefulness in solving crimes and their failure would be permanent.

So Jane marked time. As he told Lisbon long ago, if you wait on the river bank long enough, sooner or later the bodies of your enemies will float by. Sooner or later the FBI would give in, would try to salvage success from their gamble. Jane was confident he gambled better than they did. The disappearance of Abel Schneiderman was his break.

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, August-October, 2015**

The relief and joy Lisbon felt at seeing Jane after two years was short lived. It was literally short in that she saw him for only 15 minutes before he was swept away to the "detention suite." There was nothing for her to do but return to Cannon River.

Those 15 minutes changed things. It was no longer necessary to hide her interest in Jane. Lisbon "officially" knew he was in Austin. She could call Cho and talk to him about Jane without compromising his career. Cho made it a point of seeing Jane for a few minutes at least once a week. Abbott and Fischer tolerated this. Other than possibly appearing a bit bored, Jane seemed none the worse for the experience. Cho was glad to be able to reassure Lisbon, especially when her letters to Jane were consistently returned. Both had degrees in criminal justice, both had read about the effects of solitary confinement. If Jane wasn't technically in solitary confinement, it was close enough to make the literature all too relevant. Cho's visits were the only way Lisbon beat back her worries for Jane as days stretched to weeks, then a month, and then three months.

When she got back to Cannon River, Lisbon called Pete and Sam and filled them in on Jane's return and current situation. They were glad he had returned, glad the FBI sought to hire him as a consultant. Strangely, they were less concerned than she was about the solitary confinement. They dismissed it with the same response they had given way back when Danny was on the run: "He's a survivor. He's gonna do okay." Lisbon wrote it off to the tougher carny life.

It was a shock when Lisbon got Jane's last letter from Venezuela, sent just before he left with the Feds. This time, Pete simply put it into an envelope and mailed it to her. She received it with a pang of regret. Reading it, she recognized parts that were real, but other paragraphs were intended to mislead the FBI. Back in the US, Jane was physically much closer. But she couldn't even look forward to letters from him each month. She did take comfort in having seen him. Jane was healthier than she had ever known him–physically, mentally, and emotionally. He no longer had an aura of grief and revenge thinly concealed by his innate cleverness and playfulness. He was more relaxed than she had ever seen him. And, though she hesitated to think too closely about this, he seemed willing to be openly _interested_ in her, untempered by terror that his interest would result in her death under a smiley face. Jane was back in the US but the detention made it more frustrating than ever.

It did not help that her whole life was on the verge of upheaval. Jane had made working with her one of his demands. Lisbon alternated between looking forward to working on challenging cases again, especially with Jane, and, being irritated at being moved around like a pawn in one of Jane's master chess games. She finally resolved that, yes, she was interested in working for the FBI. But if she was ever to control her life, she would also find the opportunity to draw and enforce boundaries with Jane. Her life, her career had to be _her_ choice, not playthings of Jane.

After a month passed, Lisbon called Madeline Hightower to fill her in on recent events. When Jane killed McAllister–Red John–Hightower had gotten her life back. She and her kids returned to a normal existence without fear. Most relevant for Lisbon were Hightower's political contacts, savvy, and "pull." The more people who knew Jane's situation, the less freedom the FBI would have to truly abuse Jane. As his detention was nearing three full months, Lisbon began to seriously consider asking Hightower to actively intervene. Even though Cho said Jane seemed all right, Lisbon's concerns were growing with each passing week. Jane was incredibly resilient, but it was unrealistic to think his endurance was limitless. Her intention of calling Hightower was derailed by Fischer's visit, asking her to work with Jane on the Schneiderman case.


	25. Chpt 25-Nov'15-Endgame & Visibility

**Austin, Texas, November, 2015**

Note: Quotations marked with "*" are from The Mentalist episode, "Green Thumb."

**Lisbon and Jane**

"You ran away again, Jane. Not from the FBI, you ran away from me."*

"Yeah, but I ran back."*

"How was I supposed to know? I thought you were gone again forever."*

"Okay, you're right. I–I'm sorry, Lisbon. I–I didn't think about you."*

"Well, you rarely do."*

"Well, that's not true. I made you one of my demands. I'm–I'm not joining the FBI unless they make you a job offer."*

"That's my point. What makes you think I want to work with you again? You are difficult and exhausting, and maybe I don't want to put the rest of my life on hold to be your sidekick. Have you ever thought about that?"*

"No...no. I hadn't considered it."*

"You think you know what's good for my life, but you haven't been a part of my life for two years. So let's get this case wrapped up so I can go home."*

Jane felt like he'd been kicked in the groin.

His daydreams in Venezuela were sweet and easy. He would get them both hired by the FBI. Lisbon would benefit from getting more interesting work. He would benefit by working cases with her the way they had for the CBI for so many years. And if his plans unfolded as intended, their relationship would become intimate and permanent, under whatever the label or formal commitment Teresa preferred. The conversation on the plane suggested otherwise.

A part of him protested the unfairness of it. As a kid he was always getting in trouble by acting on what was plainly written on others' faces. That was still getting him in trouble. Jane _knew_ with absolute certainty Lisbon was bored to death with Cannon River and would thrive working FBI cases. He still would get the FBI to offer her a job. After all, she could take it or leave it and having a choice was always a good thing. But having been kicked up-side the head, he now understood that wasn't enough

It was crystal clear he needed to change his approach. Lisbon loved him–_still_ loved him. He could read that much. But he wanted more than getting his way despite her best efforts to resist. He wanted what he had...with Angela. He wanted them to rejoice equally in their love, to revel in being together. It was just dawning on him that might require him to change, and change in ways that would be harder than anything he had done except Red John. He desperately needed to talk further with Lisbon. Instead, he got Abbott.

~.~.~.~

**Abbott and Jane**

As soon as the Schneiderman case was over, Abbott invited–required-Jane to talk with him. Jane restated his terms. Abbott refused and mentioned the murder trial. Jane played his trump card: Bertram's thumb drive. Abbott again refused and returned Jane to detention.

Jane relaxed on the bed, pleasantly ruminating about how well his long con with the FBI was working out. _Only a matter of time. Abbott is now in a weaker position than after our first meeting here. He knows detention doesn't work. He's seen how useful I can be. _Uniquely_ useful. –And I bet he noticed how easily I escaped. That nicely reinforced the need for my _willing_ cooperation. At this point he's not reluctantly following orders: Abbott, himself, _wants_ me to work for him. _

_Ah, and the decisive factor? Bertram's thumb drive. The FBI is supposed to be done cleaning up the Blake Association. How would Abbott explain a steady drip, drip, drip of corrupt agents, judges, politicos, cops and the like who were somehow overlooked? One a month for a year or so would pretty much end Abbott's career. How long will it take him to accept the inevitable and capitulate? None of my demands are unreasonable or beyond his ability to deliver. Okay, the Airstream and tea cabinet may be obnoxious. But he can do it. And will he tell his bosses that I blackmailed him? Or will he cover and then have to fight for the terms–_my_ terms–with his superiors? Sweet!_

_~.~.~.~_

**Washington State, November 2015**

Lisbon had returned to Cannon River after the Schneiderman case. Jane was directly returned to detention after meeting with Abbott. When she left, Jane had still been smarting from her dressing down on the plane. She had almost–_almost_–softened it, but then sucked it up and hung tough. If she blurred the line she had drawn in the sand, Jane wouldn't get the message and it would only be harder next time. And there would be a next time because she knew more than ever she _wanted_ to work with him in the FBI. Returning to Cannon River was like a bath and warm milk after a parachute jump. She preferred the parachute jump, even with (_especially with!_) Jane complications.

It was a few days later that Kim Fischer called to outline the elements of a job offer. The proposed pay and benefits were more than generous. In the true spirit of being Jane's partner, Lisbon made a few demands not absolutely essential to keep them from thinking she was a pushover or should somehow be grateful. _The FBI may not know I deserve this opportunity, but they are about to find out._ Most important, she demanded to be given full agent status, eligible for all the opportunities for advancement as any of them and independent of any issues that might arise between the FBI and Jane. Although Fischer–and Cho–would rank her in the field, Abbott would be her official superior, would do her performance evaluations. Fischer told Lisbon her contract would be ready in about a week, once Abbott got final approval. Of course, the FBI's job offer meant Jane had won. Jane had won in his contest with Abbott. And Jane had won over Lisbon, even if he didn't know it yet.

Lisbon gave an informal heads up of her plans to the Cannon River mayor who managed her police chief contract. She wouldn't officially resign until she had a signed contract in hand from the FBI, but a forewarning was only fair. Lisbon bought tickets for a flight back to Austin for a week later. She also boxed and shipped Jane's suits c/o the Austin FBI office. Knowing his suits were expensive and custom-tailored, she had salvaged them from his extended stay hotel room two years ago before leaving Sacramento. Now that Jane apparently had accomplished the astonishing with the FBI, she decided she might as well plan on them both plunging into their new life in Austin. She was tired of the FBI's high-handed treatment of Jane, tired of his being at a disadvantage in something as basic as clothing.

~.~.~.~

**Austin, Texas, November 2015**

Lisbon arrived in Austin a week later. Kim Fischer greeted her and told her she and Jane would meet with Abbott to sign contracts later that morning. Cho would escort Lisbon and Jane from the detention cell to the meeting. Cho lagged behind Lisbon to park the car at the detention center, figuring they might want a few moments to themselves. Lisbon glanced at Jane through the window in the cell door. A week after meeting with Abbott, Jane still didn't know he had won. He was lying on his bed, the embodiment of relaxed. Lisbon marveled that he managed such calm when–so far as _he_ knew–his life and freedom were still unresolved, still at he mercy of others. She was pleased she would be the bearer of good news–Abbott's and her own.

Jane enjoyed the news he had won his demands with the FBI, but wasn't in the least surprised. Pleased with himself, Jane revealed his trump card–Bertram's encrypted list of Blake Association members. Lisbon was agog at the sheer audacity. After all, they hadn't broken the encryption. Their belief it was a Blake Association membership list was a guess–highly likely a correct guess, but still a guess. Of course, in his usual two steps ahead fashion, Jane now had several years to decrypt it should he ever need the actual names.

While Jane was _pleased_ at prevailing over the FBI, he was _delighted_ that Lisbon would also be working for the FBI. She was gratified he seemed to "get" that it was her right to call the shots in her life, even if he was correct in his conclusion that the FBI was a good move for her. _Step one accomplished between Jane and me. Maybe it will sink in this time._ Jane was not merely pleased, but palpably touched at her gift of socks. Lisbon began to appreciate the extent of his anxiety about her decision and about where he stood with her. Although warmed by the degree to which he cared, she was uneasy, a bit concerned at the frank insecurity so uncharacteristic of him. Jane followed Cho out of the room. Before she left, Lisbon looked around and shuddered a bit at the thought of Jane spending nearly a hundred days isolated in the bare, tiny cell.

The meeting with Abbott was brisk and brief. The contracts accurately reflected the terms they had individually discussed with him or Fischer. Lisbon proceeded to read her contract closely. Jane appeared content just to read Abbott's face and demeanor until Lisbon kicked his ankle under the table and gave him a pointed glance. When he read the actual document, he found it accurately reflected the terms on his napkin from Venezuela but with details such as pay, benefits, and duration. One substantive provision had been added: Jane was prohibited from contact with the media and from publicizing his work with the FBI. Jane also received court paperwork dismissing all charges against him. They received temporary FBI ID cards, Lisbon got the keys to an FBI SUV for her use, and Jane received an FBI voucher for an Airstream RV (unspecified amount with a generous maximum limit). Then they were free to go.

Having signed the contracts, Jane and Lisbon had legally bound themselves to work for the FBI. Both were there by choice. Abbott and Fischer stepped outside the box and took a leap of faith. They accepted that as sufficient guarantee that Jane was controlled the only way he could be–by a commitment made freely by him. Jane was pleased to lose any overt "minders." Cho had been given the day to help the new FBI employee and consultant settle in. Jane and Lisbon would have a week before reporting to work. They would both get additional, unpaid time to settle Lisbon's affairs in Cannon River, Washington toward the end of the month.

Jane, Lisbon and Cho stepped out into the sun. Jane smiled wide, leaned his head back, spread his arms in a stretch, and breathed deeply. "A free man!"

Cho clapped him on the back. "Son of a gun, you did it, Jane. You got the FBI to drop the charges and hire you!"

Jane glanced over, "With a little help from my friends. –Watch it, Cho! That smile may not be FBI regulation!"

"Fu–"

"Hey!" Lisbon interrupted. "Let's have lunch and celebrate. Then,–" looking Jane up and down, "I think a little shopping is in order."

His enthusiasm for shopping distinctly limited, Cho asked, "What kind of shopping?"

"A lot of little stuff. Clothes for him, for one thing," Lisbon answered.

"Know a good tailor around here?" Jane asked Cho.

Lisbon interjected, "I shipped your suits to Austin. They're being held at the FBI reception storage area."

Jane stopped dead, "You bothered to store my suits from Sacramento?"

"Sure," Lisbon replied casually. "You spent a fortune on them and I thought it was a waste not to save them. And let me tell you, Jane, you definitely need them. Plus other clothes." She smiled, but once again found Jane's level of gratitude a little disconcerting._ Maybe all this and the three months in that cell are a little much for him. Time to decompress, relax, and breathe, Jane._ "Come on. Lunch, then shopping. Cho, if you direct us to suitable men's stores, you're off the hook for the clothing. Maybe you'll enjoy shopping for his Airstream."

By the end of the day, Jane again had a basic wardrobe and personal toiletry items. (He shrugged when Lisbon pointedly included a shaving kit.) With kibitzing by Lisbon and Cho, Jane also purchased a new Airstream RV which would be delivered in a few days. Meanwhile, they would both stay in a hotel near the FBI building. Lisbon, too, had to figure out what she wanted to do about housing. She and Jane would start an internet search tomorrow. Jane couldn't do much about setting up his home till he took possession of the Airstream.

~.~.~.~

**Washington State, November 2015**

"To friends! I cannot thank you enough. I had no idea coming to the CBI 12 years ago would make all the difference." Jane raised his wine glass in a toast.

"To _good_ friends," Rigsby seconded.

Lisbon had chosen the end of November to pack and move. Before she tore apart her home, she decided she would host Thanksgiving dinner for her old team. (At her suggestion, Jane invited Pete and Sam, but they declined. They would catch up with them another time.) Jane had come out with her to help with the house. Rigsby and Van Pelt came up from Sacramento with their kids and Cho, who was in the area to share the holiday weekend with his family. It was Jane's opportunity to catch up on two years' news with them, and for them to renew their friendship with him. They detailed their various roles in creating positive buzz for Jane's big come-back effort. Ever the entertainer, Jane shared amusing highlights from his two years in Venezuela. True to form, Jane was delighted in playing with Ben and Maddie Rigsby. Surprisingly, stoic Cho was equally fond of the Rigsby children and did his best to spoil them.

Friday after Thanksgiving, after fond farewells and earnest vows to keep in touch, Cho and the Rigsby family left for the long drive back to Sacramento. Jane and Lisbon spent the rest of the day packing belongings in most of the rooms of her house. Done for the day, they relaxed on her couch in the den, fireplace lit, with a cup of tea and cup of coffee, respectively.

"Lisbon, this is far more of a home than you ever had in Sacramento. In Sacramento, you still had boxes to unpack ten years after starting at the CBI."

"I got a really good deal in buying this house. I like the style and couple of acres of land, and it's just five miles from the police department. After all the mess in Sacramento, I really wanted stability, to put down roots. I thought this might be permanent."

He swirled the tea in his cup, looking down at the spiral trail of sweetener. "Do you regret selling it? You seem happy to be at the FBI, but..."

"No. I like this, but it's just a 'thing.' I can get another house. I'm far happier working for the FBI than I was here. I'm really glad to work with you and Cho again. Austin will be better in every way once we settle in." She sipped her coffee and assessed her friend. "How about you, Jane. Are you happy? Is the FBI what you hoped it would be? –I mean, as much as you can tell from a few weeks, a few cases."

He replied quickly and brightly, "Oh, yeah. I'm thrilled to have interesting things to think about. I–I love working together again, although it's not quite as close as our old CBI team."

Lisbon looked at the CBI team photo still on her mantle. His answer was too fast, too glib to be tell her what she wanted to know. Softly, "Jane, I miss you."

He looked at her with a faint frown. "Come again? 'Miss' me? Not 'missed'?"

She got up, lifted the loose floorboard, and picked up the bundle of letters he had written to her from Venezuela. "Jane, I loved getting your letters. You made a point of writing every month, and I appreciated that. But I most loved that you shared your thoughts, revealed something of yourself."

"We're together every day in Austin."

"We're in the same room, at the same crime scene. That's not what I'm talking about."

"So? What?"

"So, how are you doing, really?" When he didn't answer, she illuminated all the things he was not talking about with her. "Is there more you want out of life than solving cases? How did you manage three months of solitary confinement? I get the feeling it wasn't as easy as you pretend, that it still bothers you in some ways. How are you doing with returning to the US and to investigations after–after Red John and then a two year exile? -Unlike your letters, you're back to managing an image, controlling what you let the outside world see. ...Controlling what you let _me_ see."

.He leaned back against the couch, eyes closed. "I don't mean to. It's...hard. Because you couldn't write back, my letters were like a diary. Being...visible to yourself isn't an issue."

She sipped her coffee. Gently, "Why is it an issue with me? Hey, handsome,–"

Jane jerked slightly at that, startled.

"–I'm your greatest admirer, most devoted supporter. I think I've shown that over, oh, a decade or so."

Quietly. "I know." He took a deep breath, then continued. "My first thirty years were a study in misdirection, camouflage,...lying. Being anything _but_ visible. Then, the ten years at CBI were a struggle to keep Red John from knowing what I knew. And to avoid putting you and the team in danger. Being transparent doesn't come naturally, Teresa."

Lisbon looked away, thought a moment. She decided to try a different tack. "Do you want anything different between us? A closer relationship? Or did I read your letters wrong for two years?"

He stiffened and gasped softly in surprise. "Yes, I want us to be closer." He unconsciously shifted a bit closer to her on the couch, rubbing the tops of his thighs in anxiety.

"Jane, I want that too. How can I be close to you if you won't let me _see_ you. For me–and I think for you as well–intimacy is about far more than just the physical."

They sat in silence for several minutes. It wasn't awkward, wasn't contentious. Both just reflected quietly on their discussion.

Finally, "So what do you want me to do?"

Gently. "Nothing hard. Just talk to me. More. If something's troubling, I'd like to know. Perhaps I can help. At least I can be sympathetic. If you're pleased at something, tell me that, too. Maybe just pretend you're still writing me letters. –I'm not gonna be some relationship harridan, who demands to know your every thought. But I enjoy seeing the fascinating, complicated, perceptive Jane you showed me in your letters."

"Only in the letters?"

She sighed and gave him a slight smile. "No. Not just in the letters. But I want to see more of you, more often."

"I don't know if I can always–"

"-Jane! Who said anything about 'always.' Can you try?"

"Yeah."

"That's good enough." She was pleased that he had made a commitment to try. That was enough to give her leave to remind him, if necessary. _Progress. Good._

They paused again, just enjoying the quiet and each others' presence. Jane finished his tea and took the tea and coffee cups into the kitchen. He returned with wine glasses and an open bottle of Zinfandel.

Lisbon glanced at the bottle. "It's not fancy, but tastes good."

He smiled as he filled their glasses, "Kind of what matters most, no? We'll see." He put the wine bottle on the sofa table and handed her a glass. Sitting down, he crossed his legs at the knee and his arms loosely on his lap. Then, consciously relaxing, he unfolded himself and draped an arm on the back of the couch above her shoulders. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

She smiled widely, "Whatever's going on in Patrick Jane's head. –Talk to me about detention. It seems like there's something there."

After a moment, "There is. The three months weren't so bad."

"Did you worry Abbott wouldn't give in?"

With certainty, confidence. "No. I had the advantage. It was only a matter of time."

"Then?"

"Ever since I've been out I feel kind of off balance. Overly emotional, a little out of control."

"I've sensed that, a bit. Is it getting better as time goes on?"

He shifted his position slightly to relieve tension. "I think so. Gradually."

"How can I help?"

"By–" he snorted softly and continued with a wry grin, "talking to me, being here."

"Can you think of anything else that would help? A–"

"-Shrink? No. It's minor, just disconcerting. And it _is_ lessening, slowly." He grinned crookedly. "Talking to you will probably help." She had the grace to avoid an "I told you so."

They sipped their wine, sitting quietly, enjoying the company. Lisbon snuggled against him, head leaning against the arm he rested on her shoulders. Jane hugged her to him. When she turned to look at him he leaned over and brushed her lips in a tentative kiss. She responded in kind. Gentle. Sweet. Tired from packing and with a serious discussion hanging between them, they enjoyed tender kissing while watching the fire. It was enough. For now.


	26. Chpt 26-Dec'15-The Last Barrier Fell

**Austin, Texas, December 2015**

Lisbon and Jane were driving the two-and-a-half hours from Corpus Christi back to Austin after the FBI had closed the case of the five murdered DEA agents. Jane had solved the case, identifying Krystal Markham as the killer. Flying solo, Jane got a useable confession for her murder of Paco Perez on his cell phone. A slight miscalculation would have gotten him killed had the FBI helicopter not distracted her and allowed Jane a watery escape. Lisbon volunteered to drive a dripping, shivering Jane back to Austin. Another agent would drive back the FBI SUV that Jane had used.

Lisbon's anger and disgust were so impenetrable that the first two hours were spent in silence except for the quiet chattering of Jane's teeth from the cold. Lisbon's foul mood was such that it took her that long to realize Jane was still violently shivering, hot tea and the heater notwithstanding. With a surge of guilt she realized he probably should have donned dry clothing, since evaporation would further cool his body.

"Jane?" He didn't answer the first time. "Jane?!"

"H–h-huh?"

"You're as cold as you were at the marina."

"F-f-feels c-colder."

"Maybe we should go to a trauma center. Hypothermia is dangerous."

Jane's best effort at scoffing was undermined by constant shivering. "N-n-nah."

"Stop it! Hypothermia can be fatal. I learned that when you almost drowned in Sacramento."

"It-it's two hours later. Can't be."

"I'm not sure. Any movement pushes cold blood from your arms and legs toward your core. If core temperature is low enough, it triggers irregular heart rhythms or even cardiac arrest. Too cold and you can't recover on your own. It _can_ be fatal."

"Aww, c-mon, Lisbon. I just need a hot shower and a-a lot of blankets."

She glanced at him, his face intermittently visible from the interstate lights. He looked pale and miserable, as pathetic as a drenched cat. She sighed in indecision. Reluctantly, "Well, you're lucid, so you're probably right." _Why the hell am I letting him persuade me? He's notorious for avoiding needed care. How can someone so smart be so stupidly stubborn?_

"Th-thanks." Jane did his best to quell his shivering, hating the idea of an emergency room visit added to the long, exhausting day.

_~.~.~.~_

Lisbon pulled up to Jane's Airstream. He unlocked the door, fortunately not having lost his keys during his impromptu swim. As she feared, the cold night air and moving around triggered more violent shivering. She grabbed her go-bag and came in with him.

"I'll put water on for tea. Go take a hot shower right away. I'm still worried."

Jane did as directed. _Amazing what the prospect of an emergency room visit or death can do to get Jane's cooperation._

Lisbon collected dry clothing-t-shirt, sweat pants, sweatshirt and and his robe. He had no slippers so she substituted the thick socks she had given him. While water was heating for tea, she set the oven to the lowest temperature and warmed his clothes. She snapped her fingers remembering something. She returned to the SUV and got a tympanic thermometer from the FBI emergency supplies. She not only wanted to take his temperature now, she wanted to be able to take it while he was sleeping to be sure it didn't fall further. She stood in the middle of the small living area and concluded that she had gathered everything she could think of for him. She opened the bathroom door six inches while he was still showering and put the warmed clothes on the counter. She found a blanket and pillows to use herself when she converted the couch into her bed for the night. She also got several towels, one for her use. The others she warmed for Jane. After the shower he looked better and was shivering less. She had him drink as much hot tea as he was willing and gave him a high calorie snack for energy. She put him to bed, torso covered with the warmed towels. His temperature was several degrees low, but she was relieved it was well above the danger threshold she remembered from his near-drowning several years ago.

With Jane settled in, Lisbon made coffee and a snack for herself. She had been to the Airstream several times when Jane invited her to home-cooked dinners. Cooking was yet another thing he did well, a newly discovered talent she heartily approved. Lisbon found the RV too small for her taste, but grudgingly admitted it was functional_,_ comfortable living for one person (_like Jane would choose anything poorly designed-not!)._ The rest of the night was without incident. Jane slept soundly and his temperature gradually climbed into the normal range.

~.~.~.~

Jane awoke Saturday morning, looking better but feeling sheepish at Friday's events. He insisted on making them breakfast. They finished and cleaned up. Jane brought over tea and coffee and sat down next to her on the couch. He leaned over to give her a kiss which, after a brief hesitation, she accepted and returned. They had grown closer since Thanksgiving, but at Lisbon's measured pace. They were spending more time together. True to his word, Jane was making the effort to be more open and respect Lisbon's right to run her own life. They were increasingly familiar, but the physical relationship had not gone beyond kissing–even if that boundary was honored only by sheer force of will by both, at times.

"Okay, Lisbon. I guess this is a great opportunity for openness."

She sighed and looked at him somberly. "Do you know why I was so angry yesterday?"

He shrugged, "Yeah, there was some danger in taking Markham down."

She took a deep breath. "That's not even close."

"Hmm?"

"You state it as though you had no role in _making_ it dangerous."

"We go after murderers–a murderess in this case. Catching killers is dangerous."

"True. But you chose to risk your life with her."

Sharply, "It_ is_ my life to risk. Solving the crime, catching the perp is the payoff. It's what I'm hired to do."

Another sigh. "Do you honestly believe that? That is so much BS."

"Hey! I got the FBI to recruit me and drop all charges. I'm expected to get results."

"Damn it, Jane. Do you figure you owe Abbott your life doing so?"

"Inherently dangerous, remember?"

She bit her bottom lip, working at remaining calm. "Are–are you saying you have to _prove_ yourself to the FBI?!"

He swallowed and looked away. "Well, yeah. And–"

"–And?"

"And to you, for you at the FBI."

"Oh, God, Jane. I cannot believe this."

He drank some tea before replying. "That's how it started out at the CBI."

"Jane, you could sit on your ass and do nothing for the rest of your life. You'd still have a more stellar record than ninety-nine percent of detectives. The FBI recruited you _because it already knows that_. My admiration and respect for your abilities won't change no matter what!"

"So what? What does this mean for us?"

"Jane, last night the other shoe dropped. I've been waiting for this to happen. It's why I haven't wanted us to go further." She had his attention. _This is my chance. Either I make him see it, or there is no way I can afford to be more connected to this man than I already am._ She cradled his face between her hands and kissed him quickly on his lips. "Listen, Patrick. After my past, my father, I cannot afford to love someone who is self-destructive. I will do everything I can to resist getting closer. Either I make you see it my way, or there is no 'us' beyond friends."

He looked at her stunned, his breath ragged. "How–how do I work for the FBI then?"

"Jane, being a homicide detective is dangerous. But unnecessary risks are simply self‑destructive. You certainly could have told me your plan ahead of time. Further, your ability to solve cases is unique. There are dozens of good agents physically capable of taking down perps. It's cold to say so, but if they–we–get killed, there are others who can do the job just as well. If you get killed, you have no replacement. Do you begin to see my point?

"It's about unnecessary risks?"

"That's part of it."

They sat in silence for several minutes. Then Lisbon straightened, hopeful she finally saw a way to change his perspective.

"Jane, do you recall our argument at that desert diner, just before Red John put his mark on me?"

Cautiously, "Yeah?"

"My actions are _exactly_ the kind of thing you do...and need to stop doing."

"Go ahead."

"We disagreed about what to do. I had Grace put those phone traces on, without telling you. I lied to you and manipulated you. When you found out we argued–"

"I should never have argued with you. I sh–"

Sharply, "Stop! For once this is not about you. From the time we argued till the time the paramedics and you got to that abandoned house, how did you feel? What did you feel?"

He replied, barely above a whisper, "I was terrified. I _knew_ you would be lured into danger. Red John could have killed you at will."

"Jane, that is exactly how I feel when you do stuff like that. I ignored your advice. I lied and manipulated you. I stupidly went into a dangerous situation without telling anyone, without back-up. And I could have been killed. Do you see the parallels?"

He breathed his reply, "Yeah."

"Jane, _you do that all the time! It scares the hell out of me. Sooner or later it's gonna get you killed. And I don't want to be in love with you when it does."_

The blood had drained from his face. The memory of the danger she had been in–danger perfectly predictable to him, even though he could not convince her–made him weak and nauseous. "That's how you see it? That's what you want me to change?"

"Yes. That's what you _have to_ change."

"If–if I tell you ahead of time whenever it might be dangerous, and, if I do my best to avoid unnecessary risks, that's all you need?"

Hand on the back of his neck, she pulled his face to her and kissed him hard, salty tears mixing with the taste of tea and coffee. "Jane, that would be wonderful if you can do that. Your hunt for Red John was borderline self-destructive. You couldn't live without getting him. But now there's no reason to take horrible risks, no reason to do it alone. I _need_ you to value and protect your life. That values and protects me. I already love you. I want to give myself to you without reservation, without worrying you'll throw your life away. And mine with it."

"I understand," he responded, voice rough with emotion. "I'll do my best."

He kissed her, fierce and wild, a decade of desire all surfacing in one moment. She responded with abandon, self-protection and passion no longer at war. Their hands stroked each other, explored, and feverishly removed layers of clothing. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her against him, her arms locking him equally to her. They broke for air, and he used that interruption to carry her to the bed. The last barrier had fallen.

The End


End file.
